An antidote to World Cup Fever

No doubt by now my English readers are recovering from Saturday's experience of cold turkey so heartlessly administered by our Australian cousins, and the owners of ITV are vainly trying to persuade advertisers that the viewing figures for future fixtures will be unaffected. And meanwhile some women are refraining from reminding their dearly beloveds that, after all, it's only a game.

The Rugby World Cup, anticipated as the next great sporting event in the country after the Olympic and Commonwealth Games, already shows signs of going the way of all flesh. I suppose the consolation for the RFU is that they have already sold tickets for the potential "hot" matches at vast prices to corporate clients and individuals. The best hope for them and the broadcasters must be that at least one of the home nations comes good and so preserves some great British enthusiasm for the whole show.

The famous tackle on Jono Lomu in 1995 (AP Photo/John Parkin)

Meanwhile it was all put into perspective for me by Miles Pilling who's in the middle of raising cash and awareness for MND with brilliant photographer, Cristian Barnett (26 Miles 4 MND). Miles, like me, has the PLS form of MND. I spent a couple of hours a few weeks ago on a photoshoot with them for their project. He sent me a link to the story of Joost Van Der Westhuizen. I did know about this legend of South African rugby, their scrum half in the World Cup winning team celebrated in the film, Invictus. The championship took place in 1995, a year after Nelson Mandela being elected president of South Africa, and the alliance between Mandela and Francois Pienaar, the team captain, did much to heal the rift left by apartheid.

Van Der Westhuizen's first symptom occurred seven years ago, but it was not until 2011 that he was finally given the diagnosis of Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS), the commonest, rapid form of MND, with a prognosis of two to five years. Last night I watched a series of YouTube clips (a documentary and some interviews) which vividly and painfully illustrate the nature of the disease. Early on he talks about about his determination to fight the disease and to set up a foundation mainly to provide care and facilities for sufferers of MND (the J 9 Foundation) - 9 being the scrum-half's shirt number. Here are three of the clips: A Life of Two Halves, with Jim Rosenthal, Interview with Dr Mol (South Africa), The Rugby Show.

At home with his rugby memorabilia (Gallo Images for ESPN)

I ended by reading an article by James Peacock for BBC Sport, Joost Van Der Westhuizen: still fighting on his deathbed, which, despite its sensationalist headline, is well worth a read. At one point he reminded me of my co-author of I Choose Everything, Jozanne Moss, also a young parent of a boy and a girl, when he says, "'But I know that God is alive in my life and with experience you do learn. I can now talk openly about the mistakes I made because I know my faith won't give up and it won't diminish.

'It's only when you go through what I am going through that you understand that life is generous.'"

You do realise that even for an outstanding sportsman such as Joost Van Der Westhuizen there is much more to life than the glamorous and lucrative world of professional sport - there's his family, there's the gift of being alive, and there's God. There are more important things than winning. There's living.

(PS Apologies for the malfunction of the link to the good BBC article. My fault. It now works.)

On a personal note

I'm sure I'm not alone among people with MND in being amazingly grateful on a significant day which after diagnosis I'd never expected to see. Our 40th wedding anniversary, which we celebrated a week ago, was one of those big days. All our family made it home for the big day. When we returned from church, there was a brand new pergola built in the garden awaiting us, with a rose and honeysuckle to go with it. A celebratory lunch with a rather fine wine followed.  

The week continued with a cream tea on Monday, a barbecue on Wednesday, and going to the ballet in London on Saturday. The last proved quite an adventure as we hadn't factored in an anti-Israel demonstration (no comment) which closed off all the roads from the A4 (which we were on) to Theatreland and created a tailback all the way to the Hammersmith Flyover (5 miles from our destination). Our satnav gave up the struggle, wanting us to continue the way we were heading, and so, with an hour and a half in hand, we made for the south - only to find Putney Bridge closed for repairs! 

The long and the short of it is, having crossed south of the river, we made reasonable progress and arrived at The Coliseum a mere half hour late! There, at last, we found ourselves treated wonderfully well, whisked into a box in time to see the tail end of Act 1 and all of Acts 2 and 3 of Coppélia, which was great fun and lovely music. I must say that the staff at the theatre were consideration personified - and the facilities first-class. The ballet's going on tour in the autumn (the English National Ballet) and, if that's your sort of thing, I recommend it. It's a very optimistic production, beautifully but not fussily danced.

One more recommendation if you're looking for somewhere to eat in the Trafalgar Square area, try the St Martin's Crypt - accessible, atmospheric, reasonably priced and not too crowded. Our good friends from Wimbledon took us there after the performance.

And in case you're wondering, the journey home was a breeze - well, for me. Jane of course was driving, and I have to say she's a match for any London cabby!

Thankfully, looking back

Well, it’s been quite a year, in my book.  Internationally, it’s been a bit of a mess, with seemingly endless blood-letting and just some hopeful glimmers such as the breakthrough in the Iranian nuclear talks.  Nationally, it’s hard to know what to think, with, apparently, economic recovery on its way (hurray!) and yet, clearly, standards of living still falling and food-banks multiplying.  So leaving things too complicated for me aside, let me reflect on my own past twelve months.

Early in the year, the two big ecclesiastical appointments caused me to suspect that the Almighty hadn’t nodded off.  He’s the one to break the mould – and in Justin Welby first and then in Jorge Mario Bergoglio the world was suddenly faced with an Archbishop and a Pope of very different characters from any of their predecessors right back to the first century.  Justin Welby today concurred with Time magazine’s identification of Pope Francis as Man of the Year.  I must say for me they are both outstanding examples of Christian leadership, men with the moral mettle to practise what they preach.  Francis “almost persuades me” to be a Catholic - good thing Justin's there too! 

I’ve been kept quite busy talking about ending life well, a number of times at St Mellitus’ College in West London and a couple of times on TV.  The former I especially enjoyed.  I suppose it was partly the erstwhile teacher in me; and it was partly having a sympathetic audience prepared to take the trouble to understand my gob-stoppered speech.  It’s something, as you know, that I feel strongly about, and which I think is under threat in the very country where the hospice movement began.  As Dame Cicely Saunders, its pioneer, once said, “You matter because you are you. You matter to the last moment of your life, and we will do all we can, not only to help you die peacefully, but also to live until you die.”  That should be the motto of all geriatric and terminal care. 

Well, certainly, helped by Jane and family and friends, this year I have continued to live – and to live a fulfilled life.  I have had moments of desperate frustration, part and parcel, as a friend of mine recently put it, of  “The joy and depths of this terrible, painful and yet wonderful journey of loss, disability and dependence - the gift that has been given to us.”  Yet I have had times of great joy, such as the week’s holiday with all our family in the middle of Devon in the sunniest August for years; getting down and into the sea perched on a bulbous bouncing beach wheelchair; getting to know our daughter’s rapidly growing special needs’ therapy puppy, and getting to know new friends.

Two particularly special friends we made this year are Esther and her partner, Julie.  It’s not often that a chance encounter completely changes one - I'd call it a "God-moment".  But hearing Esther explaining vividly the prolonged pain and exclusion she’d endured among Christians because of her sexual orientation was the final confirmation for me that I and many like me had long been responsible for a gross injustice in the very community which should be marked by justice and love.  Followers of this blog will perhaps remember that I have long admired faithfulness in same-sex friendships.  However now I believe something more, and that is that sexual orientation is not a lifestyle choice, but an innate given, or gift.  How can we withhold love and welcome from our sisters and brothers?  I think we should bless them.  It will for many seem an unremarkable conclusion.  Equally for many it will seem heresy.  There it is.  It seems I keep on learning - slowly. 

I’ve not been able adequately to express the power of that meeting and my present conviction.  The best I can do is recommend my book of the year, given me at Christmas: Unconditional by Justin Lee (subtitled “Rescuing the Gospel from the Gays-vs-Christians Debate” published this year by Hodder & Stoughton, also published as Torn in the US).  If you don’t understand the hurt gays endure in the Church, this will give you some idea.

My DVD of the year has to be Les Misérables, that remarkable achievement of performance, cinematography and, of course, of story-telling.  I forbad myself seeing it in a cinema suspecting I would weep uncontrollably and loudly, and so waited for the DVD to come out.  I didn’t weep uncontrollably, although I confess Anne Hathaway’s extraordinary "I dreamed a dream" did reduce me to tears.  However it’s the film’s unbearably potent message of forgiveness and love that most moved me and conjures the dream of how radically revolutionary a society based on it would be.  It would be the Kingdom of heaven.

My woman of the year, apart from members of my family, is, I think, Jack Monroe, a deservedly popular blogger, A girl called Jack looks back, who in her own words “started this year living – existing – on a £10 a week food budget topped up with five items of food from the Storehouse food bank once a week. (And) ended it with a recipe book deal, baking biscuits on Woman’s Hour, with a Guardian column, a debate in the House of Commons and regular political and campaign pieces in the Daily Mirror.”  She came across my radar when she was campaigning for the poor and petitioning for a parliamentary debate about the rise in food banks.  I just like her.

My man of the year, apart from members of my family again, is – sorry to be predictable – Pope Francis.  Here’s quite a good summary of why (not mine): Why Pope Francis is person of the year.  I’m sure there are thousands of less high-profile people who are equally acting out the good news of Jesus Christ, but it is quite something to be in a position of such power and temptation and to maintain one’s integrity and humility.  No doubt he has made and will make mistakes.  After all he is human.

Talking of the all too human, my sporting flop of the year has to be the England men's cricket tour of Australia this winter. What a craven capitulation!  The less said the better.  And is the sporting triumph the second consecutive “British” win of the Tour de France by Chris Froome, or the “British” Men’s Singles victory at Wimbledon for Andy Murray?  I guess I'd go for the Scotsman.

My outing of the year - well, I'll choose our two to Stratford on Avon, first to see As You Like It, with Pippa Nixon outstanding as Rosalind, to celebrate our wedding anniversary, and secondly to see Nancy Meckler's brilliant production of All's Well that Ends Well in company with our delightful out-laws.

So another year ends.  And I’m looking forward to my favourite morning.  Tomorrow, I hope to wake up beside my lovely wife and realise that I’ve been spared to enjoy yet another year of discovery, starting with the Vienna New Year's Day concert, coffee and croissants..., and then who knows what surprises and new or renewed friendships?  Lord, bring it on! 

Rare generosity

Our week began with two contrasting but hugely moving events. The first was the funeral of a fifteen-year old girl with life-limiting disabilities (which I've already written about here "Thank you, Beth"). To one way of looking, this girl had no quality of life herself and impoverished her family's lifestyle. However I would disagree - and if the family were to be believed so would they, vehemently and utterly. Their testimony was simply how much good their daughter had brought into their lives. Not that they minimised the difficulties and heartache, but one simply has to know them to recognise how much love and joy (of a depth and quality few of us ever experience) she brought to them and to others - of whom I was fortunate enough to be one.

I first met her and her parents three summers ago when we were at a churches' convention and they were across the gangway from us. The attentiveness of her parents to her life-sustaining needs was constant and unconditional. It was clearly their way of life - and it lasted up to and beyond her premature death. Her send-off was no ordinary funeral. It plumbed the depths of grief and soared on heights of hope, all enveloped with extraordinary love. I have absolutely no doubt that if you asked the family whether they'd rather not have had the past fifteen years they would be astonished at the very question.

Then on Tuesday we visited an old friend who'd lived in the next village to us and in whose farmhouse I always received a warm welcome. She is now in a care home for dementia sufferers. We think she recognised us, but it wasn't easy to be certain. What was clear is that she was the same person we always knew, with the same sweet and cheerful nature, the same lady who used to sing a capella after communion in the small country church where she worshipped month by month. We were particularly glad to have spent an hour with her in that eccentric lounge, with disorientated women and men, with all their fluctuating emotions. It's hard to pin down why it wasn't depressing, but it wasn't. I dare say it might feel that way after a while. In fact it was rather the reverse. I think an important factor was the care of the staff. They were an international group, from at least three continents I'd guess. But they were all patient and quiet. It was impressive. We commented to one of them as we were leaving how patient they seemed and she said, "You have to be to work here."

I'm glad neither our young friend nor our old friend was thrown on the scrap-heap, but both have been valued and cared for, whatever the cost. Their lives were and are infinitely precious, as are all lives, however "useless". May we never set foot on the road which denies that value.

Simone Weil

I was listening to Melvyn Bragg's admirable programme In Our Time this morning and learned about the remarkable Simone Weil, about whom I was woefully ignorant. Born in France, she died in England in 1943 aged 34, and is buried in Ashford. Her understanding of pain was unusually vivid. One thing she said has really struck me, “Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.” That, it seems to me, is what both my friends received. One could use other cognate words, such as attentiveness and attending to, or being totally aware of, or focusing on. It's the sort of care that gives itself to the other at the expense of the self - that is "the rarest and purest form of generosity". And I'm grateful to have seen it in the unpromising milieu of a dementia care home and particularly in one family's devotion to their helpless dependent child. I have had a privileged couple of days.

Chirpy old man!

I feel I need to rectify the impression I may have been projecting that I've become a permanent curmudgeon. Not so, dear reader....

Last weekend was wonderful. Not only was there more sun on Saturday and Sunday, but we also saw all of our family, as we were celebrating a birthday. As I'm sure I've said before, but it bears repeating, my family are great fun, and kind enough to keep most of their wit until I've finished eating. On Saturday Paul brought down our old photo albums from the loft and provided our granddaughters with considerable entertainment seeing their aunt and uncles as children and me with a full head of hair. Not only did Jane cook a roast for 9 on Sunday, but also a birthday lunch on Monday for 10 - both delicious, of course.

The house always seems very quiet after such a weekend. Not that Jane and I rattle around, it's just quiet and leaves us grateful for our children.

This week has been medical week. Jenny, the OT at the MND Centre in Oxford, contacted me on Tuesday about a possible tilt-in-space manual wheelchair for me to look at. It's "lightweight", and would help keep my posture more vertical than I manage at present. We'd have to see if it was easy to get in the boot of the car, both for weight and space. Anyway, we've arranged to meet her at a local supplier next week and she'll assess its suitability.

Then yesterday it was off to see the GP for a chat about my muscle relaxants. I'm taking the maximum dose I'm prepared to, and to be frank it doesn't seem to be solving the problem (my feet treading on each other when I walk, i.e. the adductors having too much tone, or something). As Gabapentin is a systemic drug, of course, it affects other muscles and I have found standing for any length of time harder et al. So in the end I've decided to reduce them bit by bit to zero. I am grateful for drugs (for example, that stop me fitting), although I don't always remember to say grace (i.e. thanks) before I take them, as I once heard Colin Urquhart recommend; but I'd prefer not to have them if possible.

And today it was the dentist I was visiting. She was ready to deal with a disintegrating premolar which has long given me trouble. She detected a small gum-boil next to it, and when I told her it had been a bit sensitive to pressure last week, she pursed her lips, and took an x-ray. Then she revised her intention to replace the existing filling, and gave me the choice, either to have root canal treatment and to try and cap it with a filling (with uncertain prospect of lasting success) or to have it out. She explained, but the decision was mine. Yikes! In the end I went for the extraction. She is amazing, my dentist. Out it popped!

All the above, of course, was on the National Health Service - not entirely free, but as good as - and all top quality treatment. Well, my dentist has extracted three of my teeth - and I still enjoy going. That must say something! Coincidentally today there were demonstrations by public service workers largely about pensions. In my view, my OT, physio, doctor, dentist, dental nurse, all deserve to have their full pensions as they are now.

The Queen's Speech

With Jane out of action, the A team did a sterling job on Christmas lunch yesterday. We lingered over the turkey and trimmings with Château Capville  2009, and the sherry trifle and mince pies. One result was that we watched the Queen's Christmas address after 3 o'clock. However in my opinion it was worth waiting for. You can watch it here. I gather it's all her own work, without political advisers interfering. Perhaps it was an illusion fostered by the fact that Prince Philip was in Papworth Heart Hospital while the broadcast went out (obviously it had been filmed some time ago), and perhaps because Jane and I have been extra aware of the fragility of life, but to me there was a sense of the Queen wanting to record her most urgent message while she could.

It was nicely constructed, reminiscing over the royals' past year in which they'd seen extreme hardship in Australia and New Zealand and South Wales, and the response of courage. It reflected on the strength of friendship and family, mentioning the her two grandchildren's weddings. Its conclusion, somewhat flinched at by the press, was uncompromising and uncoded, simple and profound:

"For many, this Christmas will not be easy. With our armed forces deployed around the world, thousands of service families face Christmas without their loved ones at home.

"The bereaved and the lonely will find it especially hard. And, as we all know, the world is going through difficult times. All this will affect our celebration of this great Christian festival.

"Finding hope in adversity is one of the themes of Christmas. Jesus was born into a world full of fear. The angels came to frightened shepherds with hope in their voices: 'Fear not', they urged, 'we bring you tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. 

"'For unto you is born this day in the City of David a Saviour who is Christ the Lord.'

"Although we are capable of great acts of kindness, history teaches us that we sometimes need saving from ourselves - from our recklessness or our greed.

"God sent into the world a unique person - neither a philosopher nor a general, important though they are, but a Saviour, with the power to forgive.

"Forgiveness lies at the heart of the Christian faith. It can heal broken families, it can restore friendships and it can reconcile divided communities. It is in forgiveness that we feel the power of God's love.

"In the last verse of this beautiful carol, O Little Town Of Bethlehem, there's a prayer:

O Holy Child of Bethlehem,

Descend to us we pray.

Cast out our sin

And enter in.

Be born in us today.

"It is my prayer that on this Christmas day we might all find room in our lives for the message of the angels and for the love of God through Christ our Lord."

"Neither a philosopher nor a general... but a Saviour with the power to forgive" - that is strong stuff. It's not PC, but yet it's true. "Forgiveness lies at the heart of the Christian faith" and it is able to heal families, friendships and communities, and, as her Majesty's prayer implies, it is not something endemic to humanity, but something given through Jesus Christ. Well said, Ma'am! 

And thank you, family, for a wonderfully lovely Christmas.

In with the in-laws

After a few heavy posts it's time for something lighter. On Thursday we bade a fond farewell to Jane's parents after a short stay here. Her mum, you may recall, recently fell down six steps in their garden. She's clearly made of tougher stuff than me! She's back in one piece and going like a Duracell bunny.

One mealtime I asked her father whether he was on HMS Paladin when HMS Cornwall was sunk on 5th April 1942 in the Indian Ocean. My late uncle was on board the Cornwall as doctor. It was attacked by Japanese dive bombers and sunk within 12 minutes. My father-in-law was on the Paladin which was one of the boats which rescued the survivors. So there's the intriguing possibility that my future father-in-law met my uncle in the middle of the war, even fished him out of the sea. He told me that the Cornwall's captain had kept the men singing (mainly hymns) as they waited in the sea for rescue, hanging on to debris and floats for up to 30 hours. I imagine Uncle Paul was leading the singing.

Tuesday was warm and sunny, if you remember, and so we decided an expedition was in order, nothing too demanding - just the Oxford Botanic Gardens and then across the road to have lunch in the Old Kitchens in Magdalen College, which we thought they'd like. I think I was the most excited to find an episode of Lewis being filmed there (the fictional Morse's promoted side-kick, to be

distinguished from Magdalen's brilliant real life don, C S Lewis). Anyway there the crew were hard at work: "Let's do it again... and again..." The crime scene seemed to be on the banks or in the waters of the Cherwell. And there were the actors and extras looking extraordinarily unexcited! I got Jane to ask an assistant when the episode would be - probably no 4 or 6 in the new series. I'll obviously have to record the series.

The gardens themselves gave me plenty of opportunities to use the camera Jane gave me for my birthday, with its zoom and  close-ups. Had a bit of trouble getting into the disabled loo but am happy to report it is a good one.

Then it was over to Magdalen. For wheelchair users they have to open the main wooden doors ("otherwise reserved for the Queen" - and anyone else who needs it!). The Old Kitchens are a good place for an economical lunch in congenial surroundings (e.g. £2 for a bowl of soup, croutons and a roll). Then we wandered through the grounds (herbaceous borders better than over the road, according to one gardener amongst us) and into the chapel with its remarkable copy of Leonardo da Vinci's Last Supper, before home.

Otherwise our time was spent together talking, puzzling over codewords and crosswords, and neglecting the TV - which I gather we in the UK watch for an average of 4.3 hours per day, to the detriment of our longevity. We should be out walking regularly instead enjoying the beautiful world we've been born into. And I reckon enjoying plenty of good company such as we've just had - and of course in the picture!

Things I'm grateful for

My mother-in-law is a remarkable lady - no jokes about dragons-in-law here. Last year, at the age of 82, she exhibited for the last time in the annual show of the Royal Society of Miniature Painters, Sculptors and Gravers at the Mall Gallery. This week she phoned Jane and mentioned, by the by, that she'd been gardening last Saturday and, pulling out a shrub, had fallen backwards down a flight of concrete steps, gashing her head, her legs and arms, and bruising herself all over. The minor injuries clinic took an hour to patch her up and told her to do nothing for 48 hours. Her verdict was without a hint of self-pity, "I was very lucky, wasn't I?" She wouldn't countenance cancelling the overnight visit of an old friend a couple of days later. They entertained him and took him out. Well, she said, keeping busy took her mind off it all. They don't make them like that these days, as they say! Actually I think they're wrong. I think they are people like that around still, with what's sometimes called an attitude of gratitude.

In fact since Monday when we went to visit Tony I've positively been trying to look out for the things I'm grateful for. And I don't mean the sort of gratitude urged on us when faced with a lukewarm unappetising school dinner: "Eat up. Think of the starving millions; they'd be grateful for just a bit of that." To which the answer (unspoken of course) is, "Well, they're welcome to it all." That's comparative, and usually negative, gratitude. "I'm grateful I'm not starving, not that ill, not living there etc."

I've been thinking about the sheer gifts I enjoy, such as:
I'm grateful for the circling red kites which add glamour to our humdrum suburban skies.
I'm grateful for the wood warbler which came and picked the bugs off our smoke tree.
I'm grateful for the hoverflies which fly in and out of the conservatory hanging in the air like miniature humming birds.
I'm grateful for the sunshine which relaxes my muscles and for the rain which keeps the lawn reasonably green.
I'm grateful for the dentist who's going to sort out my teeth - again.
I'm grateful for the man who services my lift and for the chap who repairs my wheelchairs.
I'm grateful for our nice home adapted to my needs, and I enjoy being able to look at a constantly changing, interesting garden.
I'm grateful for the car which means we can get out and about.
I'm grateful that we can afford to go away for holidays together.
I'm grateful that I am able to see rivers and lakes and oceans.
I'm grateful that I can sit on a hillside and watch Jane and Jess (our dog) go off for a walk - and return.
I'm grateful that I can sleep next to Jane in bed.
I'm grateful that I'm married to Jane and she's a good cook - and all-round good egg.
I'm grateful that my family all have jobs that I admire and are such fun company.
I'm grateful for my friends who seem to like me and have stuck with me.
I'm grateful for every day which brings new things to learn, some pleasurable, some painful - but such is life.
I'm glad to live in a universe which is so vast, and beautiful, and complex, and intricate, and endlessly mysterious.
I'm glad to know that existence is not absurd or pointless.
I'm grateful that the secret of life's origin and destiny is found in someone who lived the most loving and selfless life, in history (c. AD 1-33).
I'm glad Jesus Christ knows me.
I'm grateful to be alive.

News about Alfred Ebenezer

Quite out of the blue I had some more background on my great grandfather, in the form of an email from my second cousin, Brian, who tells me he was at Cambridge at the same time as my oldest brother. He'd hit upon this blog.

Alfred Ebenezer Wenham ("AEW")

"AEW had three sons. William, Basil and Douglas. Douglas's elder daughter, Barbara, was my mother. My brother, sister and I all grew up in and around the Lickey; so I knew, and still know, The Old Rose and Crown. I was at school at the building higher up the hill, now known as Hillscourt. But it closed as a boys' school and now is the HQ and training centre for NAS/UWT.  I called in there recently and little has changed with the original buildings.  The Union has put up many extra buildings, but kept the main house. 
"The Old  Rose and Crown is now the clubhouse for the municipal golf course as well as being a pub/café.
"AEW is buried in the Lickey churchyard where the headstone refers to him being ‘of the Lickey and Oban’ where he moved to in 1918. He died at Oban in 1933. I have been shown round Kilbowie, Oban, by the caretaker. It is an outdoor recreation centre now, having been for a while a boarding house for schoolchildren coming in from the Isles each Monday-Friday." Fascinating - and various of his descendants have nursed fantasies of buying Kilbowie back as a dream holiday investment!

The old Kilbowie blighted by utilitarian council architecture
but still with the magnificent view over the Sound of Kerrera

Strangely enough when we first moved to Stanford in the Vale we found that one of Basil's daughters, Marcia Williams (if I remember right), lived in Great Coxwell about six miles away. In fact we still have a beautiful* horse rug with Basil's initials on it which she gave us. It rides around in our car! (*Jane protests that it's not beautiful, merely useful!!)

Funny old world, as one of my sons would say....

"Alfie"

Not Alfie Elkins (Michael Caine) of the film: “What's it all about? You know what I mean.” But my very respectable accountant great-grandfather, whom I imagined meeting Cardinal Newman on Rednal Hill, Alfred Ebenezer Wenham, who I suspect was a rather different kettle of fish. 

As the Industrial Revolution gathered pace, he realised that the Midlands was the place to be and moved from South London to Birmingham in 1867, where he set up his accountancy business at 11 Cherry Street. Today it's a narrow road at right angles to Corporation Street, flanked by sky scrapers and modern office blocks. The whole area has sadly been redeveloped. Then I suspect it would have looked more like this.

By 1871 he was living in Ann Street; and clearly had set up a recognised firm and was making good money, thank you. My father told us he worked with local industrialists - and I guess that's where the bucks were. So much so that by the mid nineties he could contemplate building a substantial house in the Lickey Hills, then a beautiful rural area outside the city. Now it's a country park and golf-course on the south but built up to the north. On Rednal Hill, just round the corner from the Oratorians' retreat house, he built a country villa. (The next bit is wrong - see 27th Sept!) Hillscourt House - which now, much and rather crudely extended, is national headquarters for the NAS/UWT teachers' union and a conference centre.

It's here he was photographed in 1914/15 with his grandchildren.

I suspect that by then his first wife had died, as he subsequently and rather unconventionally married Leah, the maid, with whom he retired to Scotland, buying a rather impressive house in Oban overlooking the island of Kerrera. I believe they were very happy there. And my father and his three sisters would spend summer holidays there.

You'll have noticed, if you're observant, that among Alfred's seven (soon to be eight) grandchildren there is only one boy - sitting on his knee. He's my dad. And I'm sure the expectation was that he would enter the family business and become a partner and in the end senior partner....

However, thanks to his oldest sister (standing to Alfred's right), my father came to a personal faith in the sixth form. He went to university and duly entered the family firm and began a career in accountancy - for a year in their London office - but he knew that was not his calling. It must have been a dramatic scene when he told his father that he felt called to be ordained. Wenham and Wenhams was a successful firm. He'd be sacrificing a great deal, but there's a saying by the 20th century martyr, Jim Elliot, "He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose." Which no doubt my father would have quoted if it had been said by then - which it wasn't. And so he became an Anglican clergyman on a stipend.

In 2008 the firm set up by Alfred Ebenezer was based in Cornwall Street in Birmingham, with offices in London, New York and Dubai, and was called Wenham Major. It was the 24th largest accountancy in the UK; it's annual fee income was £22 million. Oh Dad!!

Under its chief executive the firm had undertaken an aggressive expansion plan. On May 1, 2008, however, the firm announced that it was being investigated for financial irregularities. Less than one month later its core operations were sold to RSM Bentley Jennison. That was it.


"He is no fool...." My dad had a incredibly rich and contented life and enriched many people with something more valuable than money.  He knew God loved him and he and mother passed that love on to us and to many others. And perhaps my dear great-grandfather, Alfie, seeing what others had done to the firm he had painstakingly created asked his successors, "What's it all about?"

Stories

There's a story I semi-remember from my childhood about Pope Gregory commissioning Augustine of Canterbury. Apparently he'd seen some British slave (or captured) children in Rome in 573. When he asked where they were from - I suppose they were fair northern rather than dark southern European - he was told they were Angli, Angles i.e. English. 'Non Angli, sed angeli,' he replied. 'Not Angles, but angels.' Actually the quote finishes, 'si forent Christiani' - if they became Christians, and so began Augustine's mission to convert Britain starting at the other end from the Celtic monks. Why was I thinking about that? Oh yes, I remember. We've had our rather nice granddaughters with us over the weekend, and there's some dispute over whether they're scallywags or angels. I suspect it's a bit of both, like all of us.

They had to put up with being looked after by their grandparents on Sunday while their mum and dad went to a wedding in Gloucestershire. I was not much help, of course, but fortunately Granny was very competent - 'not had four children for nothing!' - and Auntie Rachel came to our aid. It was a good-natured day.

Bank Holiday Monday wasn't exactly balmy, but we had an expedition to the local rec, where you can see the three girls with Penny on the walkie roundabout thing. Except for one bumped head, great fun was had by all. In the end we had to tear ourselves away to put the spuds on for lunch.

Before they left for the soggy north-west, according to the new tradition Granny read them a new chapter from my next book, working title Stumpy.... You read it here first!

Meanwhile the publication date of their great uncle's new book has just been announced, June 25th. As you may remember it was provoked by Philip Pullman's The Good Man Jesus and the Scoundrel Christ - which is based on the old idea that the early church distorted the original simple Palestinian teacher and created a supernatural Christ. His book is unashamed fiction, which is what he's very good at, but in Did St Paul Get Jesus Right? David, who really knows what he's talking about, looks at the commonly held assumption of a made-up divine Christ and examines how much St Paul really did invent a new gospel. I won't tell you the conclusion, because that would spoil it for you (and undermine its sales!), but it's not a heavy read.

Not as many laughs as My Donkeybody, but still worth reading! (And yes, I have read it.)

Multi-faceted love

What a good weekend!  Mellow, I'd call it.  First thing Saturday our friends Tony and Jimmy who fitted our new kitchen last year came round to advise us about our misted up double-glazed window panes and some other ideas I've had about tidying up the house.  It's nice to have people you trust.  Then the family from Manchester arrived and settled in, followed by Bryan from Bristol; by Sunday lunch all the family had arrived.  Yes!!  I got them practising hauling me to my feet so that Jane doesn't always have to do it. We always get a Saturday paper when they're here.  This week it was The Times, and unusually it had an excellent article by Simon Barnes, their football correspondent who does Nature Notes as well, about his son Eddie aged 5 who has Down's Syndrome.  It's called something like, 'My Life with a tiger cub'.  I've quoted from it below, and put the link up on the list.

All good things have to come to an end of course, and now they've all gone back to their week's work.  It was a sort of early Mothering Sunday, because sadly next Sunday clashes with the start of the F1 Grand Prix season - and we have our priorities, you know - only joking!  

We stayed in to watch 'Songs of Praise', which was about prayer.  Although the music had reverted a bit to the all-in-black dull concert style, the interviews were above averagely good.  I'd been sounded out about the programme, but I have to say three of the interviews - with Rowan Williams, Desmond Tutu and Jane Grayshon - were all outstanding.  I don't always feel that our Aled is really engaged with the subject but this time was an exception.  Archbishop Tutu talked about prayer in terms of a relationship of love.  'It sounds almost like marriage,' said Aled, 'for better for worse, in sickness and in health.'  To which Tutu gave one of his chuckles in agreement.   Jane Grayshon has had acute chronic pain (which is treated in a hospice) for 35 years, and she made no bones about how difficult it was.  'Is it hell on earth?'  'Yes.'  I can't imagine living continuously with acute pain.  It must be the worst thing.  A good programme.

Later that evening I read Simon Barnes' article.  It is full of both parents' love for their son.  He asked a question our society needs reminding of, especially these days when some are being told they are useless 'burdens' on society:

'What is Eddie for? A question worth asking, I think. The Nazis sent people with Down’s to the ovens, because they polluted the purity of the race. And before we shudder at such barbarity, we should remember that most women pregnant with a baby with Down’s syndrome choose to abort. It’s clear that many people believe that a child with Down’s has no point: that such a being is extraneous to human needs, a mere burden on society and, in particular, on the parents. Best get rid of them.

'The reality of Eddie’s life contradicts all that. At school, he is held very dear. The headmistress has said that her school is a better place for his presence: because Eddie is there, the school’s small society has become more caring, more gentle, more at ease with itself. At the end of the last school year, Eddie won the Peace Prize, voted for annually by the entire class. The prize is given to the kindest, most generous and most helpful child....'

He talks about people's reaction to Eddie in public places - and it is universally positive. But he asks:

'Is that enough, though? Shouldn’t an individual contribute something to society? Eddie’s function is to be loved, and to love in return. Perhaps that is everybody’s ultimate function. Eddie enriches the lives of his family and enriches the lives of those he comes into contact with outside. That seems to me to be a life right on the cutting edge of usefulness.'

Et al

I realise my last blog was all about me.  I apologise.  What vanity.

So let me wish YOU a happy and prosperous 2010.  And let me tell you about some of our visitors over the past few days, to wit the Manchester mob and the Three Wise Men and their wives.  (You read it here first - the wise men were married.)  As you can see, the Manchester mob (above) are very creative, as well as lovely.  The godfather is characteristically camera-shy!  Faith (with her mother) was suffering with the same bug as me, and so was quite miserable.

Then last Saturday my three brothers and their wives came for lunch.  I've mentioned them before; they all have doctorates and are quite distinguished in their fields, and all married Cambridge graduates.  But for all that I'm fond of them all.  Below are the two theologian brothers deep in frivolous conversation.

Having family is fun, I must say.  And now we are back to 'normality', on our onesome, trying to ignore the politicians' phoney election campaign.  Give us a break, Gordie, Dave and Nick, please.  It's been nice having some days of peace and goodwill.