I was simply astonished when I came across the following. It demonstrates how extraordinarily clever the brain is.
Try reading this without hesitating:
I cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdgnieg.
The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid aoccdrnig to rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy: it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteres be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit a porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe.
Now tell me that you are not amazed!
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Monday, October 30, 2006
Ploughing a Straight Furrow
One of the great delights of being a country G.P. is the opportunity to become involved with wider areas of the community, often under circumstances that have little to do with the practise of medicine. However, there are also pitfalls for the unwary.
When I first joined the practice, a retired partner gave me some sound advice:
‘Become involved with the local community,’ he said, ‘but never, ever agree to judge the “Bonny Baby Competition” .’
His reasoning, of course, was that there was no way I could make the “right” decision. I would immediately become the focus of hate for all those mothers who considered themselves (and, more importantly, their “darling little coochy-woochy”) overlooked and deprived of first prize “which really ought to have been theirs”.
He was right, of course, and it was advice that rang in my ears several years later when asked to judge the “Miss Slinky of the Year Competition” by the proprietor of a local slimming club. Not only was the aforementioned person my patient, but I was aware that several of her members, who had been working hard on their slinkiness for the past year, were also female patients of mine. How was I ever to make a decision as to whom the first prize should be awarded and hope to be alive by the time I reached the car park? Furthermore, if I did escape the braying mob, there would be the inevitable ninth-degree from my wife on my arrival home. Questions such as ‘why did you select that particular woman?’ and ‘do you fancy her then?’ interspersed by long periods of awkward silences, were just not worth the five minutes of playing the local celebrity role. I gently declined the invitation.
The prospect was very different when I was approached by a District Nurse and asked whether I would be willing to present the prizes at the local ploughing match. Following a quick risk assessment, I decided that I was on safe ground (so to speak) with this one and accepted.
The irony of the situation, however, did not escape my wife:
‘You? A ploughing match?’ she asked in-between wiping the tears of laughter from her cheeks. ‘What do you know about ploughing? You can’t even cut a loaf of bread in a straight line!’
‘They want me to present the prizes, not judge the quality of the furrows,’ I replied, slightly wounded at this sleight on my practical abilities.
She was right, of course. Straight lines and me just do not go together. Loaves of bread assume a wedge shape in my presence; likewise pieces of wood when brought in contact with a saw wielded by my hand. The strange thing is that I do have a critical eye for the precise levelling of a picture on a wall. It is when the hands become involved that things seem to go haywire. Which is one reason why I opted to be a G.P. and not a surgeon.
I guess I was also concerned at any allusion to my really being a “townie”. I vehemently defend my country pedigree. After all, I am a Kentish Man. (See A Matter of Identity - 23 Jan 06 - on this blog). That is most certainly not the same as being a Londoner, as my wife assumes all people born in the South East of England to be. However, even there I have to concede a point. A Kentish Man I may be, but that is clearly not the same as being the daughter of a Lincolnshire farmer - which my wife is. More to the point, she has recollections of ploughing fields using a crawler. Now, that is serious prior-knowledge when it comes to attending a ploughing match. There was nothing for it – she had to come with me to ensure my respectability amongst the rural folk.
Thus, it was that we attended the 29th District Ploughing Match on a wind swept expanse of farmland one October Sunday afternoon.
To be truthful, the afternoon was enjoyable and informative. Of course, I started by not being able to visually tell the difference between one furrow and another. However, after a few hours I found myself boldly uttering words of criticism and praise as I moved from one competition site to another. I even developed a superficial interest in the different types of tractors, which for me, being someone who, as a child, spurned anything resembling Mechano, was a major leap in my lack of fascination for all things mechanical.
The afternoon’s feverish activity soon done, I was positioned by the organisers in front of a large crowd of burly farmers, all eagerly awaiting the announcement of the results whilst trying to look nonchalant as though they did not really care for such trivialities. It was a formidable moment and I tried to look my confident best as a gentleman of the country. In that respect, I am sure I failed miserably. After all, it was most evident that, apart from on the feet of my wife and I, there were no other green wellies to be seen. A dead give away if there ever was one. ‘He’s really a townie,’ was what I feared they were whispering to themselves.
Class by class, the winners were named and each stepped forward to receive his trophy and rosette amidst polite applause. The only one who was sure his name would be called was the single entrant in the Crawler Class. He would have won even if his furrows were the shape of figure-of-eights. However, I thanked him for giving my wife a nostalgic trip down memory lane.
Interestingly, the one abiding recollection I have of the prize ceremony itself is not the crowd or the bitter wind, or the speech I had to give before presenting the prizes (which my wife inevitably said was too long). It is the size of all those hands I shook. They were enormous bunches of Lincolnshire sausages attached to rough, hairy lumps of muscle the size of spades. They looked as though they had been hewn out of the local bedrock. Another giveaway, I thought. By comparison, my own hands looked so small and soft as to make it clear to the farmers that the most strenuous undertaking I must subject them to is the occasional piece of embroidery. (Actually, I don’t know one cross stitch from another – honestly!)
However, the joking aside, there is a serious message behind all the fun and competitive demonstration of farming skills at such an event. The English countryside is only the marvellous place it is because of the labour of love, which those farmers and their ancestors have applied to it. They are the true trustees of what is at the heart of England. As I said in my speech, when I drive around the countryside in autumn and see the neat latticework of expertly ploughed fields, I intrinsically know that all is well in the world.
Coincidently, the night before the ploughing match, I happened to come across a television programme, which was part of a series of Billy Connolly’s World Tour of Scotland. Connolly made a comment that seemed most apt in view of the impending ploughing match. He said:
‘People in cities rarely get in touch with the countryside. However, when they do, it does something to them. If we truly have a soul, then it is our souls that the countryside gets in touch with.’
As I said to the farmers at the ploughing match, they are the, often unsung, guardians to that which lifts our souls and makes us feel alive. May they forever continue to take pride and pleasure in ploughing their straight furrows.
When I first joined the practice, a retired partner gave me some sound advice:
‘Become involved with the local community,’ he said, ‘but never, ever agree to judge the “Bonny Baby Competition” .’
His reasoning, of course, was that there was no way I could make the “right” decision. I would immediately become the focus of hate for all those mothers who considered themselves (and, more importantly, their “darling little coochy-woochy”) overlooked and deprived of first prize “which really ought to have been theirs”.
He was right, of course, and it was advice that rang in my ears several years later when asked to judge the “Miss Slinky of the Year Competition” by the proprietor of a local slimming club. Not only was the aforementioned person my patient, but I was aware that several of her members, who had been working hard on their slinkiness for the past year, were also female patients of mine. How was I ever to make a decision as to whom the first prize should be awarded and hope to be alive by the time I reached the car park? Furthermore, if I did escape the braying mob, there would be the inevitable ninth-degree from my wife on my arrival home. Questions such as ‘why did you select that particular woman?’ and ‘do you fancy her then?’ interspersed by long periods of awkward silences, were just not worth the five minutes of playing the local celebrity role. I gently declined the invitation.
The prospect was very different when I was approached by a District Nurse and asked whether I would be willing to present the prizes at the local ploughing match. Following a quick risk assessment, I decided that I was on safe ground (so to speak) with this one and accepted.
The irony of the situation, however, did not escape my wife:
‘You? A ploughing match?’ she asked in-between wiping the tears of laughter from her cheeks. ‘What do you know about ploughing? You can’t even cut a loaf of bread in a straight line!’
‘They want me to present the prizes, not judge the quality of the furrows,’ I replied, slightly wounded at this sleight on my practical abilities.
She was right, of course. Straight lines and me just do not go together. Loaves of bread assume a wedge shape in my presence; likewise pieces of wood when brought in contact with a saw wielded by my hand. The strange thing is that I do have a critical eye for the precise levelling of a picture on a wall. It is when the hands become involved that things seem to go haywire. Which is one reason why I opted to be a G.P. and not a surgeon.
I guess I was also concerned at any allusion to my really being a “townie”. I vehemently defend my country pedigree. After all, I am a Kentish Man. (See A Matter of Identity - 23 Jan 06 - on this blog). That is most certainly not the same as being a Londoner, as my wife assumes all people born in the South East of England to be. However, even there I have to concede a point. A Kentish Man I may be, but that is clearly not the same as being the daughter of a Lincolnshire farmer - which my wife is. More to the point, she has recollections of ploughing fields using a crawler. Now, that is serious prior-knowledge when it comes to attending a ploughing match. There was nothing for it – she had to come with me to ensure my respectability amongst the rural folk.
Thus, it was that we attended the 29th District Ploughing Match on a wind swept expanse of farmland one October Sunday afternoon.
To be truthful, the afternoon was enjoyable and informative. Of course, I started by not being able to visually tell the difference between one furrow and another. However, after a few hours I found myself boldly uttering words of criticism and praise as I moved from one competition site to another. I even developed a superficial interest in the different types of tractors, which for me, being someone who, as a child, spurned anything resembling Mechano, was a major leap in my lack of fascination for all things mechanical.
The afternoon’s feverish activity soon done, I was positioned by the organisers in front of a large crowd of burly farmers, all eagerly awaiting the announcement of the results whilst trying to look nonchalant as though they did not really care for such trivialities. It was a formidable moment and I tried to look my confident best as a gentleman of the country. In that respect, I am sure I failed miserably. After all, it was most evident that, apart from on the feet of my wife and I, there were no other green wellies to be seen. A dead give away if there ever was one. ‘He’s really a townie,’ was what I feared they were whispering to themselves.
Class by class, the winners were named and each stepped forward to receive his trophy and rosette amidst polite applause. The only one who was sure his name would be called was the single entrant in the Crawler Class. He would have won even if his furrows were the shape of figure-of-eights. However, I thanked him for giving my wife a nostalgic trip down memory lane.
Interestingly, the one abiding recollection I have of the prize ceremony itself is not the crowd or the bitter wind, or the speech I had to give before presenting the prizes (which my wife inevitably said was too long). It is the size of all those hands I shook. They were enormous bunches of Lincolnshire sausages attached to rough, hairy lumps of muscle the size of spades. They looked as though they had been hewn out of the local bedrock. Another giveaway, I thought. By comparison, my own hands looked so small and soft as to make it clear to the farmers that the most strenuous undertaking I must subject them to is the occasional piece of embroidery. (Actually, I don’t know one cross stitch from another – honestly!)
However, the joking aside, there is a serious message behind all the fun and competitive demonstration of farming skills at such an event. The English countryside is only the marvellous place it is because of the labour of love, which those farmers and their ancestors have applied to it. They are the true trustees of what is at the heart of England. As I said in my speech, when I drive around the countryside in autumn and see the neat latticework of expertly ploughed fields, I intrinsically know that all is well in the world.
Coincidently, the night before the ploughing match, I happened to come across a television programme, which was part of a series of Billy Connolly’s World Tour of Scotland. Connolly made a comment that seemed most apt in view of the impending ploughing match. He said:
‘People in cities rarely get in touch with the countryside. However, when they do, it does something to them. If we truly have a soul, then it is our souls that the countryside gets in touch with.’
As I said to the farmers at the ploughing match, they are the, often unsung, guardians to that which lifts our souls and makes us feel alive. May they forever continue to take pride and pleasure in ploughing their straight furrows.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Art in the East End in Aid of the St John Eye Hospital in Jerusalem
The 5th November 2006 promises to be extra special for lovers of art, especially if they also enjoy good company, fireworks and the opportunity to support the Order of St John Eye Hospital in Jerusalem (see my entry on this blog 'The St John of Jerusalem Eye Hospital' 14th May 2006).
The flyer gives further details. Do come and have an enjoyable evening whilst supporting a wonderful cause.
(Those interested in the Bankruptbank.com will apparently find the website live as from the 24th/25th October.)
www.stjohneyehospital.org
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Thought for the Day
People are always blaming their circumstances for what they are. I don't believe in circumstances. The people who get on in this world are the people who get up and look for the circumstances they want, and, if they can't find them, make them.
- George Bernard Shaw
- George Bernard Shaw
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Friday, October 13, 2006
The Dash
I was sent the following link by a friend. Whilst slightly on the 'twee' side, I think it is worth looking at (with the speakers turned on).
It strongly reminded me of the sentiments I wrote within an earlier piece on this blog (see Reflections after the Memorial Service - 05 Feb 2006).
It strongly reminded me of the sentiments I wrote within an earlier piece on this blog (see Reflections after the Memorial Service - 05 Feb 2006).
The question I ask myself is 'why do we constantly need reminding about such an important aspect of life?' Do we ever learn?
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
The Dales' Perspective
Sign seen above the front door of a cafe in the Yorkshire Dales:
The Dalesman Cafe
Welcomes
Cyclists, Walkers and Civilians
Monday, September 04, 2006
Words, Glorious Words
Well, that long awaited moment has arrived. This very weekend I took delivery of the Folio Society’s facsimile of the first edition of Johnson’s Dictionary. (See Lexicographic Seduction, May 2006, for the background to this particular piece of debauchery). In two enormous volumes, beautifully bound in calf-leather, the dictionary is every much the delight it had promised to be.
One of the first pleasures on opening volume one is to be able to read Samuel Johnson’s own preface. Once one has become accustomed to the portrayal of the letter ‘s’ in the style of an ‘f’, it makes for fascinating reading. Here, Johnson depicts his life as a lexicographer in terms which suggest that he came to see his great work as a ‘drudge’ and expected little thanks for his efforts. He believed that he was:
“…doomed only to remove rubbish and clear obstructions from the paths of Learning and Genius, who press forward to conquest and glory, without bestowing a smile on the humble drudge that facilitates their progress.”
The compilation of the first dictionary of the English language was clearly a far greater task than Johnson had initially believed it was going to be. However, the result was worth the effort. Indeed, many of Johnson’s own definitions have withstood the test of time and are to be found in the modern day Oxford English Dictionary.
That said, there were times when Johnson had to admit defeat. In his own words:
“Some words there are which I cannot explain, because I do not understand them…”
- a wonderfully honest statement from someone in his position.
It is probable that only someone with an immense love of books and words would share the spine-tingling pleasure achieved by the holding of one of these volumes. The delight and wonder comes from the fact that this is, as truly made as it can be, the next best thing to holding the original dictionary. That, and the overwhelming fact that the work was only published in 1755: a mere two hundred and fifty years ago. Bear in mind the significant works of literature which had been brought to the world by writers in the English language for several hundred years or more before that (Shakespeare, Milton, Pope and so on) and it becomes even more astonishing that nobody had written a dictionary before 1755. Equally astounding to the modern writer, armed with a whole armoury of dictionaries, encyclopaedias, electronic spell-checkers and the odd thesaurus or two to help him on his literary way, is that some of our country’s greatest writers were completely devoid of such lexicographical assistance. A thought for which I, for one, am all the humbler.
Johnson’s Dictionary promises to be a treasure box in which the most delightful of nuggets will be found. Only the repeated perusal of its pages will uncover them all: a task that will happily fill any wet, wintry afternoon for years to come. Thus far, I have only uncovered two such amuse-gueules.
The first relates to the word ‘twank’. ‘Twank’ is not a word to be found in the latest version of the Oxford Dictionary of English. No doubt, those with a Freudian disposition will take pleasure in the fact that this word, amongst thousands of others, stood out to me on my first perusal of the dictionary. However, putting aside such school-boy witticisms, it was the definition which first caught my eye, relating, as it does, to Freemen of the City of London; a status which I have the honour of holding. According to Johnson:
“A freeman of London has the privilege of disturbing a whole street with twanking of a brass kettle”.
I never knew I was so lucky – I must put it to the test sometime!
On a more serious note, the second enchanting entry for me relates not to a single word but to the whole section dedicated to words beginning with the letter ‘x’. There is not one! Samuel Johnson, for all his literary research, had to succumb to the following entry:
“X is a letter, which, although found in Saxon words, begins no word in the English language.”
…letter dismissed!
Times have, of course, moved on and language does not stagnate. The Oxford Dictionary of English now lists ninety-three entries under the letter ‘x’, which is good for the richness of our language, but detracts nothing from the quaintness of Johnson’s own entry.
Enough for now. The volumes must be re-cased and put away for another day. One can only cope with so much excitement in one go. I will bring future discoveries to you as and when they arise.
One of the first pleasures on opening volume one is to be able to read Samuel Johnson’s own preface. Once one has become accustomed to the portrayal of the letter ‘s’ in the style of an ‘f’, it makes for fascinating reading. Here, Johnson depicts his life as a lexicographer in terms which suggest that he came to see his great work as a ‘drudge’ and expected little thanks for his efforts. He believed that he was:
“…doomed only to remove rubbish and clear obstructions from the paths of Learning and Genius, who press forward to conquest and glory, without bestowing a smile on the humble drudge that facilitates their progress.”
The compilation of the first dictionary of the English language was clearly a far greater task than Johnson had initially believed it was going to be. However, the result was worth the effort. Indeed, many of Johnson’s own definitions have withstood the test of time and are to be found in the modern day Oxford English Dictionary.
That said, there were times when Johnson had to admit defeat. In his own words:
“Some words there are which I cannot explain, because I do not understand them…”
- a wonderfully honest statement from someone in his position.
It is probable that only someone with an immense love of books and words would share the spine-tingling pleasure achieved by the holding of one of these volumes. The delight and wonder comes from the fact that this is, as truly made as it can be, the next best thing to holding the original dictionary. That, and the overwhelming fact that the work was only published in 1755: a mere two hundred and fifty years ago. Bear in mind the significant works of literature which had been brought to the world by writers in the English language for several hundred years or more before that (Shakespeare, Milton, Pope and so on) and it becomes even more astonishing that nobody had written a dictionary before 1755. Equally astounding to the modern writer, armed with a whole armoury of dictionaries, encyclopaedias, electronic spell-checkers and the odd thesaurus or two to help him on his literary way, is that some of our country’s greatest writers were completely devoid of such lexicographical assistance. A thought for which I, for one, am all the humbler.
Johnson’s Dictionary promises to be a treasure box in which the most delightful of nuggets will be found. Only the repeated perusal of its pages will uncover them all: a task that will happily fill any wet, wintry afternoon for years to come. Thus far, I have only uncovered two such amuse-gueules.
The first relates to the word ‘twank’. ‘Twank’ is not a word to be found in the latest version of the Oxford Dictionary of English. No doubt, those with a Freudian disposition will take pleasure in the fact that this word, amongst thousands of others, stood out to me on my first perusal of the dictionary. However, putting aside such school-boy witticisms, it was the definition which first caught my eye, relating, as it does, to Freemen of the City of London; a status which I have the honour of holding. According to Johnson:
“A freeman of London has the privilege of disturbing a whole street with twanking of a brass kettle”.
I never knew I was so lucky – I must put it to the test sometime!
On a more serious note, the second enchanting entry for me relates not to a single word but to the whole section dedicated to words beginning with the letter ‘x’. There is not one! Samuel Johnson, for all his literary research, had to succumb to the following entry:
“X is a letter, which, although found in Saxon words, begins no word in the English language.”
…letter dismissed!
Times have, of course, moved on and language does not stagnate. The Oxford Dictionary of English now lists ninety-three entries under the letter ‘x’, which is good for the richness of our language, but detracts nothing from the quaintness of Johnson’s own entry.
Enough for now. The volumes must be re-cased and put away for another day. One can only cope with so much excitement in one go. I will bring future discoveries to you as and when they arise.
Monday, August 21, 2006
The Saint and the Sinner: Two Lives – One Faith
Mr Ernest Prendergast is a gentleman of what is commonly known as “the old school”. A devoutly Christian, octogenarian widower, he routinely attends the surgery to have his blood pressure checked and his medication renewed. On each occasion, regardless of the weather, he is dressed in a tweed suit, complete with waistcoat, tie, polished brogue shoes, a raincoat and cloth cap.
As he enters the consulting room he habitually hesitates, the cap being nervously fingered by both hands, gives a slight bow and apologises for having to bother me. The consultation itself is, at least on his part, a study in politeness, subservience, and respect. He always thinks deeply and speaks quietly and slowly, with great consideration given to the grammatical construction of each sentence.
I have known him for over fifteen years and have thus come to understand him very well. He has evidently led a life steeped in moderation and, as certain difficulties have shown, cannot be classed as a man of the world. Religion plays a central role within his daily activities. He has often expressed the opinion that he is merely a humble person whose soul will be claimed in due course by the Lord, whence he will have to answer for how he has spent his life in this world. His stated hope is that he has been sufficiently dutiful in the eyes of God so as not to suffer his future wrath. I have no doubt that God will not find him lacking.
At the end of the consultation, he routinely thanks me for my valued time, apologises for having taken up so much of it, offers me his hand, looks towards me with a depth of expression that only eighty years of life can replicate, and says ‘Thank you for your kindness. May God be with you’, before leaving the consulting room, head bowed, shoulders hunched, and the cap once more being gently kneaded with both hands.
Today, a few consultations after the one with Mr Prendergast, I entered the waiting room to call Lisa Jones. I spotted her in one corner, eschewing the spare chairs and choosing instead to squat cross-legged on a low window ledge. Her bleached-blond, dreadlock-styled hair, the centre of which is dyed a contrasting bright red, fell in an untidy mass around her as she rocked gently to and fro to the music on her ipod. Calling her name had no effect and it required a gentle touch to her arm to return her attention to the present.
I followed her into my consulting room, noting the sharply contrasting colours of her purple leggings, grey-denim miniskirt and dirty yellow blouse; the outfit being completed by a pair of heavy, black walking boots and a gold cross, three-inches in dimension, hung from her neck by a long gold chain of equally considerable weight.
I have known Lisa since she was eleven. She is now twenty-seven. Her life to date can only be described as one of wild, drug-fuelled debauchery. Commencing with glue sniffing, she rapidly progressed through smoking cannabis, popping ecstasy tablets, snorting cocaine and injecting heroin, with liberal quantities of alcohol thrown in. The final mixture would frequently be topped up with the odd three or four barbiturates for good measure.
Having closed the consulting room door, I sat at my desk and waited for a few moments whilst Lisa paced nervously back and forth across the floor. Finally, she grabbed a chair, pulled it as close to my desk as possible and started drumming her fingers on its surface. Still I waited, knowing that, in her own time, she would tell me why she had come. Experience had taught me that if I attempted to speed the process along, then she was just as likely to jump up and leave without a word being said on her part.
Finally, she looked towards me in a wild, unfocussed manner and tried to explain her problem. Although she is now clean of drugs, her brain has suffered more than its fair share of abuse. As a result, her sentences are disjointed as she struggles to find the appropriate words. Expletives are frequently resorted to as substitutes for verbs, nouns, and adjectives, making the whole process of listening to her an experience as colourful as her clothing, whilst the task of extracting the details of her problem can only be described as challenging.
Despite all the above, Lisa is a success story. Until a few years ago, her lifestyle was close to prematurely killing her. She was unable to care for herself, let alone her young daughter. As a result, her daughter was taken into care by the social services and Lisa spent long periods on the local psychiatric ward. However, it wasn’t modern medicine that cured her of her addictions. It was Christianity. Finding a deep faith finally gave her a focus within her life and helped her escape from the black hole in which she had, heretofore, psychologically dwelt.
The start of her new journey in life first came to my attention one morning at the end of a village surgery. She arrived without an appointment, just as I was packing away the laptop and various medical paraphernalia. However, it soon became apparent that she was not there for medical advice. As she showed me the brochure for a drug rehabilitation centre run by a Christian group near to the Welsh Borders, she expressed the view that there was nobody else she felt able to talk to about such matters. Coming from Lisa, that was a surprise as, although I have often stated that the role of the modern GP is part physician, part social worker, and part priest, I had never previously had any form of conversation with Lisa about spiritual matters. She needed my opinion on two topics. First, did I think that the rehabilitation centre would be useful to her, as she had never previously had any contact with church or Christian groups; second, which book would I recommend that she read, as the centre stated in their joining instructions that each resident should bring at least one book which would help them through their process of rehabilitation.
The book I finally recommended to her was The Cross and the Switchblade by David Wilkerson. It is the true story of how a priest entered the streets of New York and started to work with the young, drug-addicted, knife-wielding gang-fighters. So many found salvation through accepting Christ into their lives that a new counselling service, known as Teen Challenge, evolved. The ministry now has centres in more than 70 countries. I thought that Lisa, as someone who would not normally read books, might find a sense of kindred spirit with some of the characters within Wilkerson’s book.
The rehabilitation was successful and the start of a new life for Lisa. Subsequently, she was able to obtain a lease on a small house in the village and the social services agreed to return her daughter to her care.
For Lisa, Christianity is now central to her life. Her faith is prominently displayed around her neck; she frequently refers to how God is her support in life, and never leaves the consulting room without glancing back to me and saying ‘Thanks. God bless you.’
After the morning’s surgery, I was left pondering on how a deep-seated faith was so important to the lives of two very different people. Old Mr Ernest Prendergast, in all of his eighty plus years, would not have even touched upon the type of life Lisa Jones has led in her twenty-seven years to date. Meeting in the street, they would probably not have even given each other a second glance. However, there was the very real (and somewhat surreal) possibility that, one Sunday morning, the tweed-suited Mr Prendergast might turn in his pew in Church and find himself offering the sign of peace to the wild, hippy-dressed, dreadlocked Lisa Jones: two different generations, leading very different lives, but ultimately united by a shared belief.
Charles Péguy, the French poet and essayist (1873 – 1914), is quoted in Basic Verities (1943) as writing in Un Nouveau Théologien (21st December 1899):
‘The sinner is at the heart of Christianity…No one is as competent as the sinner in matters of Christianity. No one, except a saint.’
I think that Lisa Jones and Ernest Prendergast are very good examples of the “sinner and the saint”. It would seem that Péguy’s analysis could not have been more correct.
(Author’s note: The names of the patients have been altered to protect their identities.)
As he enters the consulting room he habitually hesitates, the cap being nervously fingered by both hands, gives a slight bow and apologises for having to bother me. The consultation itself is, at least on his part, a study in politeness, subservience, and respect. He always thinks deeply and speaks quietly and slowly, with great consideration given to the grammatical construction of each sentence.
I have known him for over fifteen years and have thus come to understand him very well. He has evidently led a life steeped in moderation and, as certain difficulties have shown, cannot be classed as a man of the world. Religion plays a central role within his daily activities. He has often expressed the opinion that he is merely a humble person whose soul will be claimed in due course by the Lord, whence he will have to answer for how he has spent his life in this world. His stated hope is that he has been sufficiently dutiful in the eyes of God so as not to suffer his future wrath. I have no doubt that God will not find him lacking.
At the end of the consultation, he routinely thanks me for my valued time, apologises for having taken up so much of it, offers me his hand, looks towards me with a depth of expression that only eighty years of life can replicate, and says ‘Thank you for your kindness. May God be with you’, before leaving the consulting room, head bowed, shoulders hunched, and the cap once more being gently kneaded with both hands.
Today, a few consultations after the one with Mr Prendergast, I entered the waiting room to call Lisa Jones. I spotted her in one corner, eschewing the spare chairs and choosing instead to squat cross-legged on a low window ledge. Her bleached-blond, dreadlock-styled hair, the centre of which is dyed a contrasting bright red, fell in an untidy mass around her as she rocked gently to and fro to the music on her ipod. Calling her name had no effect and it required a gentle touch to her arm to return her attention to the present.
I followed her into my consulting room, noting the sharply contrasting colours of her purple leggings, grey-denim miniskirt and dirty yellow blouse; the outfit being completed by a pair of heavy, black walking boots and a gold cross, three-inches in dimension, hung from her neck by a long gold chain of equally considerable weight.
I have known Lisa since she was eleven. She is now twenty-seven. Her life to date can only be described as one of wild, drug-fuelled debauchery. Commencing with glue sniffing, she rapidly progressed through smoking cannabis, popping ecstasy tablets, snorting cocaine and injecting heroin, with liberal quantities of alcohol thrown in. The final mixture would frequently be topped up with the odd three or four barbiturates for good measure.
Having closed the consulting room door, I sat at my desk and waited for a few moments whilst Lisa paced nervously back and forth across the floor. Finally, she grabbed a chair, pulled it as close to my desk as possible and started drumming her fingers on its surface. Still I waited, knowing that, in her own time, she would tell me why she had come. Experience had taught me that if I attempted to speed the process along, then she was just as likely to jump up and leave without a word being said on her part.
Finally, she looked towards me in a wild, unfocussed manner and tried to explain her problem. Although she is now clean of drugs, her brain has suffered more than its fair share of abuse. As a result, her sentences are disjointed as she struggles to find the appropriate words. Expletives are frequently resorted to as substitutes for verbs, nouns, and adjectives, making the whole process of listening to her an experience as colourful as her clothing, whilst the task of extracting the details of her problem can only be described as challenging.
Despite all the above, Lisa is a success story. Until a few years ago, her lifestyle was close to prematurely killing her. She was unable to care for herself, let alone her young daughter. As a result, her daughter was taken into care by the social services and Lisa spent long periods on the local psychiatric ward. However, it wasn’t modern medicine that cured her of her addictions. It was Christianity. Finding a deep faith finally gave her a focus within her life and helped her escape from the black hole in which she had, heretofore, psychologically dwelt.
The start of her new journey in life first came to my attention one morning at the end of a village surgery. She arrived without an appointment, just as I was packing away the laptop and various medical paraphernalia. However, it soon became apparent that she was not there for medical advice. As she showed me the brochure for a drug rehabilitation centre run by a Christian group near to the Welsh Borders, she expressed the view that there was nobody else she felt able to talk to about such matters. Coming from Lisa, that was a surprise as, although I have often stated that the role of the modern GP is part physician, part social worker, and part priest, I had never previously had any form of conversation with Lisa about spiritual matters. She needed my opinion on two topics. First, did I think that the rehabilitation centre would be useful to her, as she had never previously had any contact with church or Christian groups; second, which book would I recommend that she read, as the centre stated in their joining instructions that each resident should bring at least one book which would help them through their process of rehabilitation.
The book I finally recommended to her was The Cross and the Switchblade by David Wilkerson. It is the true story of how a priest entered the streets of New York and started to work with the young, drug-addicted, knife-wielding gang-fighters. So many found salvation through accepting Christ into their lives that a new counselling service, known as Teen Challenge, evolved. The ministry now has centres in more than 70 countries. I thought that Lisa, as someone who would not normally read books, might find a sense of kindred spirit with some of the characters within Wilkerson’s book.
The rehabilitation was successful and the start of a new life for Lisa. Subsequently, she was able to obtain a lease on a small house in the village and the social services agreed to return her daughter to her care.
For Lisa, Christianity is now central to her life. Her faith is prominently displayed around her neck; she frequently refers to how God is her support in life, and never leaves the consulting room without glancing back to me and saying ‘Thanks. God bless you.’
After the morning’s surgery, I was left pondering on how a deep-seated faith was so important to the lives of two very different people. Old Mr Ernest Prendergast, in all of his eighty plus years, would not have even touched upon the type of life Lisa Jones has led in her twenty-seven years to date. Meeting in the street, they would probably not have even given each other a second glance. However, there was the very real (and somewhat surreal) possibility that, one Sunday morning, the tweed-suited Mr Prendergast might turn in his pew in Church and find himself offering the sign of peace to the wild, hippy-dressed, dreadlocked Lisa Jones: two different generations, leading very different lives, but ultimately united by a shared belief.
Charles Péguy, the French poet and essayist (1873 – 1914), is quoted in Basic Verities (1943) as writing in Un Nouveau Théologien (21st December 1899):
‘The sinner is at the heart of Christianity…No one is as competent as the sinner in matters of Christianity. No one, except a saint.’
I think that Lisa Jones and Ernest Prendergast are very good examples of the “sinner and the saint”. It would seem that Péguy’s analysis could not have been more correct.
(Author’s note: The names of the patients have been altered to protect their identities.)
Friday, August 18, 2006
Literary Snippet – Mark Twain
There is always something interesting to learn.
Whilst browsing the latest catalogue from The Folio Society, my attention was drawn to the new Folio edition of Life on the Mississippi by Mark Twain.
I hadn’t previously known that Mark Twain (whose other well known books include The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and The Adventures of Tom Sawyer) was a pseudonym; after all, there are many American names which sound unusual to the English ear. Further investigation revealed that his real name was Samuel Clemens.
There are two quoted possibilities for the origin of his pseudonym. The author claimed that it came from the time spent on riverboats. In order to test the depth of water, a weighted line was let out into the water. A depth of twelve feet was considered safe and the crewman would shout out ‘mark twain’.
However, there are some who maintain that his name came from time spent in the bars. On each occasion he ordered a double, he would instruct the barman to ‘mark twain’ on his account.
Either way, the knowledge will no doubt provide for a few moments of intellectual chat around the occasional dinner table.
Some of my favourite quotes attributed to Twain are:
- Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society.
- Golf is a good walk spoilt.
- It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool, than to open it and remove all doubt.
- Respect your superiors, if you have any.
- I have been complimented many times and they always embarrass me; I always feel that they have not said enough.
- Rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)