Wednesday 23 December 2015

The Kettle

Once upon a time a rich man looking for the meaning of life decided that several experts in different professions should set up an experiment in order to observe a man for a period of time through a one way mirror. He thought this would help him find the answer.

During this period, the man, who had agreed to be observed, filled the kettle and switched it on.

"What is happening now?" said the rich man.

"He is meeting the physical needs of his body through replenishment," said the biologist.

"He is reasserting old habits so that he feels more at home," said the psychologist.

"The electricity is causing energy to be transferred to the water molecules, which means they are gaining kinetic energy and heat energy," said the physicist.

"The man is escaping the problems of his mind by ignoring the silence and distracting himself," said the philosopher.

Confused by the abundance of answers, the rich man went into the room and asked the man being observed, "What is happening now?"

"I'm making a cup of tea," said the man. "Would you like one?"

Wednesday 30 September 2015

3ww The Old Man Sleeps

They were going to sedate the pathetic old man, and they had the cheek to think themselves righteous in their cowardice.

Wednesday 23 September 2015

3ww The Robber

His preparation had been haphazard and now his breathing laboured as he ran through the streets, breathing the noxious fumes and fleeing for his freedom.

Thursday 10 September 2015

A journey to South Africa

It is a little while since I wrote a mildly amusing story on here. Here is one that is true (as pretty much all of my amusing stories are).

I am a youth worker. I have the wonderful yet dubious privilege of working with young people.

Two years ago I decided I would take some young people to South Africa in 2015. It has the highest murder rate in the world, so I thought there was a good chance of having at least one less annoying young person to bring back. Turns out I am too good at making sure people stay safe, and everyone is back in the UK safe and sound.

Nine young people decided to go on the trip. We had an amazing time full of learning and transformation. It was also full of stories.

The first of which was the journey there.

Apparently unfortunate events happen in threes. What superstitious nonsense! Well, in this case, maybe not.

It began with me forgetting my passport. Not clever as one of two 'responsible' adults taking the group. But, having left plenty of time before check in I was able to have my passport delivered (thanks go to my Uncle) well before we could even send our bags on. One problem created and one problem solved. So far only mild stress caused by my own absent mindedness.

Next was the second problem.

To take young people to South Africa who are not your children you have to have a signed birth certificate, signed copies of parental passports and an affidavit confirming you have permission to take them. This all has to be countersigned by a solicitor to verify the authenticity of what you are taking. Basically, it is a massive amount of paper work. But it is to help stop human trafficking, so I am morally obliged to say it is necessary. I spent an awful lot of time making sure we had everything done correctly. I even asked a solicitor from my church to sign most of the documents to make sure I knew it was correct. At the moment he doesn't work for a solicitors office, but he is still able to offer this kind of service under UK law. It turns out British Airways are unaware of this.

When we got to the check in desk there were cries of 'Jonny! Jonny!' within seconds of each young person going to check in. They had been told, flatly and outright, 'You are not going to South Africa today.' Obviously the check in staff were mistaken. They seemed to think that without a stamp the affidavits were worthless. How wrong they were! It took about half an hour of refusing to move before we finally established that the solicitor I had consulted was, unsurprisingly considering his profession, correct about the law. So, having had young people crying about this, we had met another problem and solved it.

'These things come in threes!' said the young people.

I scoffed at the idea.

Then the third thing happened.

This is a story all on its own, a little gem of embarrassment and misfortune to worry about next time you get on a plane.

As we boarded the plane and got to our seats (a very comfortable Airbus 380 I think) there was a woman complaining to the air stewards that they had directed her down the wrong aisle to her seat.

When she did find her seat it was next to the window, about two rows forwards, three seats and one aisle across from me on the right. Sitting next to her were two of the young people. Oh, those poor young people! That woman would not stop talking. The flight was a night flight, and the young people would shut their eyes, and this woman would tap them on the shoulder to wake them up to tell them about her two step fathers, or how she was actually whiter than they are (although she was a black Ugandan woman), or how she needed to go to the toilet so please excuse me.

The flight was scheduled to be ten and a half hours long.

That pity you feel? I felt it for those young people. Being kind and responsible adults (I was prompted by the kinder and more responsible adult with me) we decided to swap with the young people so that they could actually attempt to rest without interruption.

They gladly accepted the swap.

I sat in the middle seat, next to the woman, and my colleague sat next to me, in the aisle seat.

As I sat I noticed a stench in the air, the unmistakeable smell of alcohol reached my nose.

That explains a lot I thought to myself.

The woman started talking to me. It was then I made my mistake. A glaring and hideous error.

I tried to be a nice person.

I tried to live up to Christ's call to love one another and I responded and spoke with this woman. I learnt her name is Kimoli, that her Aunt died in a plane crash (good enough reason to get hopelessly drunk on a plane, maybe). I learnt that she liked to say 'What the f***?' repeatedly and that her home was in Uganda. So far, not too terrible, except for the swearing. "Why was this a mistake?" I hear you ask, "she's only talking.".

She offered to satisfy my addictions.

She offered me marijuana, alcohol, anything I could want, if I would visit her in Uganda. Oh. Great.

Being in the drunk state that she was I figured she was malleable (not malleable enough to stop swearing when I asked her to later) so I suggested she should sleep.

She kindly listened, and slept. With her head resting on my shoulder.

I swallowed, took a deep breath, and tried to shrug her off. Unsuccessfully. I move into present tense because to think about it is to relive it.

Another deep breath. Acceptance of the way it is going to be. A sacrifice worth making for relative silence.

She strokes my shoulder.

Shock and horror run across my face, as the watching young people giggle at my predicament.

She strokes my shoulder again. And again, her hand is resting there now.

I ask my colleague if she would mind moving to the one spare seat we have seen on the plane. She goes and asks the stewards and they allow her to move. I move up one so there is a whole chair between Kimoli and I. What blessed relief! I turn on the screen and try to watch Kingsman. The headphones don't work. Fine. I will just sit and ponder life.

Oh look, Kimoli is leaning over across both chairs. Oh look, Kimoli is resting her head... against my leg!

Utter terror sweeps across my face, beyond uncomfortable and beyond speech. No words can describe my feelings during what happened next.

Her head still resting against my leg whilst I am frozen in shock, her hand moves in an uncannily sober way towards her head, beyond her head, and to my leg.

<gulp>

Then she starts stroking.

My eyes open wider than ever before and I decide I must move. I must get away from these sleepy and creepy advances. I retreat to the back of the plane, and relax.

I move back into past tense as it becomes memory again rather than reliving.

I enjoyed my time at the back of the plane, in the seat the air stewards have for take off and landing. It was a little cold, and right next to the toilet, but I went seven times during that flight (stress makes me go) and I had a little curtain to hide behind. I relaxed and managed to enjoy breakfast sitting in that seat which was free of anyone stroking me on shoulders or legs!

Twenty minutes before landing the air steward asked me to return to my seat for landing. At least she apologised, having had to deal with Kimoli herself during this flight.

Returning to that seat was like being forced to pick up a burning coal for a second time, when the first time you did it was just an accident!

Still, Kimoli was very happy to see me. She made me take her number, she ignored my pleas for clean language and then she asked me if I liked white chicks. She had seen some of the girls in our group and had realised they were with me. She even asked me if one of them was my girlfriend. I pointed out that they were too young for this to be the case and that this was an inappropriate thing to talk about.

The plane landed. I retreated, rapidly, to where I had stowed my bag overhead. Then she called, across the plane in a loud voice with a drunken Ugandan accent,

'Jonathaan! Are you a peemp? Jonathaan!! Are you a peemp!?!?'

Thanks Kimoli. For the next three weeks that was the catchphrase of the young people.

"Jonathaan! Are you a peemp? Ha ha ha!"

Then she followed us through the airport, somehow despite her drunkenness keeping up with our speed walking, our escalator dodging and our asking her to leave us alone. Finally, we reached security, and we asked them to save us. Save us they did. Then the three weeks of real adventure began.

Mysterious Glimmer 3ww


He ignored the mysterious glimmer, and instead took the fatal and well trodden path of the impartial man.

Wednesday 9 September 2015

Themba's Story

My life is full of stories.

Stories full of sadness and longing, stories of redemption and salvation, stories of forgiveness and hopelessness, healing and wonder.

But this story is a story of violence.


It used to happen when I was five. It makes me shudder to think of it, let alone tell it again.

I have lived in rough areas for almost my entire life. I have lived near bars and pubs, heard the screams and shouts of anger and hurt at night. I have felt terror before sleep, and I have known mindless violence for no reason.

It was when I lived a bit further out that it happened though. One of my chores was to go and buy bread each morning. Lots of children hate chores, but this one chore made me hate bread.

I used to step out of the house to walk to the shop, and as I walked I would notice a trail on the ground. I remember the first time I saw it. I was quite excited – I didn’t know it was blood. I followed it eagerly, a dark trail of brown drips, wondering what could leave such a trail. The first time it led to a house, and I dared not enter there. But I soon saw a similar trail again, and once, it didn’t lead to a house. Instead, it led to a man. Covered in blood and contorted into the strange shape that the agony of death brings to a person, hands clutching, desperate for something his now unseeing eyes must have hoped was there. I don’t know how many times I saw a body when I went to get bread in the morning when I was five years old. I don’t know how often blood spattered the way there. I know only that it wasn’t good. That it isn’t right for children to see this. It cries out of me that it cannot be so.

I use this story of violence and sadness as a springboard. A motivation to see my country and this world changed. A world where violence is no longer present is, I believe, possible, and I strive for it each day. I wonder, would you strive with me?
 
 
 
Based on a true story.

Thursday 8 January 2015

What if these tears are not enough?

It's happened again!
The black cloud of terror,
on the news at ten.
This time it's artists,
Of a creative nature
Drawing pictures that make
some say 'I hate ya!'
Twelve more lost
in this futile war
where only hate wins
each day more and more.
I keep trying to love,
trying to say,
STOP! this killing,
hate cannot pay,
but I'm shouting at stones,
hitting a brick wall,
what I have to say
makes no difference at all.
So instead I cry tears,
they run down my cheek,
I cannot help thinking,
the future is bleak.
So the tears will still fall,
wetting the page,
and love shivers in me,
an inescapable cage.
I want to roar at the sun,
beat the earth to the ground,
but my feeble attempts
are ignored all round.
God's abandoned us here,
here with this stuff,
this hate and this fear,
can these tears be enough?
They're an expression of grief,
and therefore of care,
without these tears,
love isn't there,
so I will cry at this wrong,
I will cry at this hate,
for while tears fall,
it is not too late.
By this they will know you,
that you love and still love
when you are abandoned
and there's no heaven above.
It is in moments like these,
when hate seems to have won
when the tears are falling
and love is undone
that hope remembers,
that faith still lives on,
so we can keep going,
we can still cling on.