Evening at the chateau.
Heelers in the front room alone.
My eye falls on a photograph.
Mags Masefield has found it and placed it on top of the piano.
It is a photo I took years ago.
I peer at the image.
There are crumple lines on it. On the back there are ideas jotted for humour columns. It is undated and unsigned.
I cannot believe how I have disrespected it.
This was a photo that meant something.
Years ago it gave me the first clear indication of my calling.
Abruply I turn away from it and walk to the bookcase.
I pull out a book at random.
It is Hamlet.
I open it.
Tucked between the pages is the twin of the photo on the piano.
I sit down.
I am not surprised or shocked or weak.
But something has happened and I know it.
The chances of the first version of the photo showing up and then me finding the pristine version tucked in the book...
The chances...
I know what has happened.
I know that somewhere in my subconscious was the knowledge that years ago I had tucked another copy of this photo into Hamlet before replacing the book on the crowded shelves.
I know that's not how I found the book or the second photo tonight.
I sit and listen.
Just listen.
Why on earth did this happen?
God doesn't do parlour tricks.
With the spirit I listen.
I'm not being told to do anything.
There's no prophecy here.
What is it?
What was he doing?
It was the lightest touch.
From the hand that flung the stars.
Why such a light touch?
Such a trivial miracle.
A little gift.
A thought struck me.
This morning as I opened my eyes I had said: "Jesus are you real?"
It was a cheeky enough prayer.
Typical of me.
This is the answer I got.

magic moments

"Which smurf would you like to be?" enquires Big Hair during a tender moment over coffees.
"Papa Smurf," I reply without even a decent moment's hesitation.
"Why Papa Smurf?"
"Because then I could genuinely say to all the girls: Who's your Daddy."

the classical form

The Mammy told me a story today which tickled me somewhat.
In fact for a few brief shining moments it made life worth living.
She had been getting a lift to Bridge club last Wednesday morning from Mrs Fotherington Smythe.
Mrs Fotherington Smythe is VERY genteel.
As they arrived at Newbridge Parish Centre, they saw Brephni the carpark attendant standing at his post.
Brephni has the unenviable task of presiding over near chaos every week as three hundred card women assemble in a carpark that can accomodate about fifty.
Anyhoo.
"There's that little b--lix," exclaimed Mrs Fotherington Smythe as they drove in the gate.
Then she became very embarassed for having cursed in front of the Mammy.
"Oh I'm so sorry," she twittered in the most distraught tones.
"Don't be silly," shot back the Mammy. "That's one of my favourite words."
When the noble Heelers heard this anecdote tonight he was for a short time incapable of coherent speech or thought.
His handsome features corruscated into a close approximation of Papa Smurf. He was laughing so hard.
"The funniest thing about it," explained the Mammy, "is that she didn't use the classical form, b--locks. She actually said b--lix. It was just perfect."

in london

the theatrical succession
years rolled away
ham actors chewing up the stage
in their anodyne atheistic little play
stand now as one
with those who hammed
in shakespeare's day
and there's something very old and very fine and very grand
in this damp tacky theatre off clubland