Pet Hates: The Menace of Contagion

Posted on October 16, 2011 by Scribe Doll

I am meeting two female friends for an after work drink at the Windsor Castle Pub.  I give one the socially compulsory kiss on the cheek.  I turn to the other but she takes a step back.  “I have a cold,” she says.

Lady A promptly sidesteps away from her.  Lady B notices.  “Yes, do keep your distance.  I don’t want you to catch it.”

“Rubbish,” I say, and kiss her, anyway.  “Besides,” I add, “I don’t go pinching other people’s colds.  Mine are all bespoke.”

I am blasé about the contagiousness of colds and ‘flu.  I am comfortable with my unscientific belief that it’s all a barrowful of nonsense.  To this belief, I add the philosophy that, should I be wrong, and these viruses are eager to pounce on me at the first opportunity, then precautions are a waste of effort.  They could just as easily leap on me on the Tube, in a restaurant, or at the newsagent.

 

Lady A and Lady B, far from appreciating my mark of steadfast friendship, eye me with suspicion.  They would clearly label me as mad, if doing so would not make them a little mad by association.  Perhaps they harbour the fear of catching my madness, if they come too close.

 

A couple of years ago, when swine ‘flu turned out to be yet another failed threat that half the world’s population would be wiped out (now wouldn’t that have been handy for those who pull the strings of the world economy), there was a large poster displayed in the window of my local Boots the Chemist:

 

The doctors surgery down the road carried a similar sign.  In other terms, if you are ill, do not go to a doctor or a pharmacy.

 

With the Government’s cuts to the National Health Service, perhaps small bells should be issued to British residents.  This way, anyone suffering from a cold or ‘flu, would be required by law to ring the bell when circulating in public places, so that non affected people can keep away.  Like lepers did, in the Middle Ages.

 

A few years ago, a friend of mine was hospitalised with pneumonia.  She was kept in isolation, apparently highly contagious.  Before allowing me in, the nurse made sure I smeared antibacterial gel on my hands.  Then she instructed me to wear a curious outfit of cellophane, composed of an apron, cap, gloves and a beak shaped mask (not unlike the one worn by the Plague Doctor in the Commedia dell’Arte).  This level of precaution made me wonder what care they must take at the School of Tropical Medicine.  Thus accoutred, I entered my friend’s room.  She lifted her head from the pillow and peered.  “Who’s that?” she asked.

I pulled the elasticated mask away from my face for a moment, to reveal my identity.

 

A few minutes later, the doctor arrived, wearing no protective gear whatsoever.  When I voiced my surprise in my Dalek voice behind my mask, she said.  “I’m not worried,” she said, sitting down on my friend’s bed.  “She’d have to cough into your mouth for you to catch anything.”

I promptly removed the cellophane off me, and rammed it into the nearest bin.

 

It seems to my medically uneducated mind, that the more antibiotics, antibacterial and antiseptic substances we use to fight germs and viruses, the stronger and more invincible the critters are likely to become.  Like the New York cockroaches that grew large to spite DDT.  Whatever happened to building up our immune system? Would it not be more beneficial, long term, to strengthen our antibodies rather than waste energy on devising various plots against bugs? Perhaps a shift in focus should be considered here.

 

Again, it seems obvious to my limited intellect, that if everything was as infectious as our health illuminati want us to believe, there would be a lot more dead doctors and nurses lying on hospital corridor floors.  In fact, who would want to study medicine at all?

 

It’s mid October, and the posters are warning us against the impending arrival of  the ‘flu.

 

I wonder if they have the flight arrival details.

 

©Scribe Doll

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Pet Hates: Sticking Things Out

Posted on October 9, 2011 by Scribe Doll

When you’re struggling with a situation, do your friends tell you to “stick it out”?

 

Stick it out.  You’ll be glad you did.

 

How do they know that? Do they have 20/20 vision into the future?

 

Stick it out.  Friends tell you that when you hate your home, when you detest your job, when you are in an unhappy relationship, when you are going out of your mind studying on a course you simply do not understand.  They said it to me when I was homesick, feverish, jobless and broke in South East Asia, a few years ago, and wanted to come back home.  Quitting is always frowned upon as an irredeemable sign of weakness.  If you quit, then you are spineless.  Stick things out, and you will rise in everyone’s estimation – never mind your standing there all bandaged up and bruised while they give you a congratulatory tap on the back… Before turning their attention to something totally unrelated.

 

At this point, let me establish the usual caveat.  Of course, the importance of sticking things out cannot be questioned if our actions have a direct bearing on others who may be dependent on us.  I am not, here, supporting the  right to pursue one’s own happiness to the detriment of others.  However, neither is it my right to judge those who do.  I do not know what is in their hearts and minds, nor what private demons might make them unable to cope with their circumstances, and drive them to escape, breaking things and people on their way out.  Moreover, there are undoubtedly cases where sticking things out is important to an individual for his or her own personal reasons, which I respect.

 

What I am querying here, is the necessity to stick things out for the sake of it – for no reason other than the unquestioned conviction that you simply do not quit.  Instead, let us question that conviction – and drag it off its plinth.

 

That is right.  You have guessed it.  I am a Quitter.  My CV resembles the multicoloured diamond pattern on Arlecchino’s costume. Would be employers stare at my CV during interviews and ask if I have itchy feet.  I quote Dolly Levi, and tell them if you have to live hand to mouth, you might as well be ambidextrous.  Depending on whether you like me or not, you could describe me  as one with the ability to reinvent myself, or as flaky.  The difference lies merely in the spin.  I am a Jack at many trades – but master at none.  Just call me Figaro.

 

Joking aside, most of my career fluctuations were thrust upon me, rather than actively chosen by me.  Circumstances change because of politics, economics or geography and, sometimes, you just have to acquire a new skill to keep body and soul together.  However, I admit, I have walked out of a few situations – professional, personal and geographical when I have felt that neither they nor I were ever going to change and live in harmony.  That was my choice.

 

You have got yourself into a mess.  You realise you have made a mistake.  That in itself is a blessing – a gift.  If you cannot find, or there simply is no way out, then you grin and bear it.  You stick it out.  However, if you do have that rare luxury of choice, then why not just honour that freedom of choice and walk away? Do you not owe it to all those people who do not share your luck? People who, for various reasons either are not aware of being in the wrong place or – worse – are aware of it but are unable to quit and start anew? Stick it out? Why? To prove to people around you that you are constant? Strong? Reliable? Or to show solidarity for their own fear of change? Rolling stone gathers no moss, that is true.  But it certainly becomes polished and smooth in the process of rolling.

 

You start reading a novel you do not enjoy.  Do you read it till the end, on principle, or do you abandon it after a few pages, thus avoiding wasting more time on it? (Only in the past couple of years have I learnt to permit myself not to finish a book.)  If you go to the theatre or the cinema and do not like the play or film, do you leave during the interval (or during a scene change, if you are sitting near the exit), or do you feel you might as well see the end? If you order a dish in a restaurant and realise you hate the taste after a couple of mouthfuls, do you leave the rest, or do you say to yourself, “I’ve paid for it, so I might as well eat it”? The money is already spent.  Why add insult to injury by eating the stuff?

 

Errare humanum est.  Everyone knows the first part of the adage.  However, how many people remember the full version?

Errare humanum est, perseverare diabolicum.  To err is human, but to continue erring is devilish.

 

©Scribe Doll

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Words and Civilisation: Really. Really! Really?

Posted on October 2, 2011 by Scribe Doll

Really is a word we  really use really a lot.  Really.  In fact, every few sentences, really.  I am not really sure why.   Now, really! There is no need to get uppity about this.  It’s really just a case of trying to understand the reason for the popularity of this really annoying word.  Because, actually, in most cases, you should really use ‘very’, instead.  Is it really necessary constantly to assure our listeners that we are really truthful about everything we say? Has there really ever been any suggestion that we are lying? Similarly, when we are told something extraordinary, we automatically retort, “Really?” Do we really expect the other person to reply, “No.  Not really”? One of my ex-bosses – a headmaster of Eton meets retired colonel, type – used to voice his disapproval (and lack of ability to provide a quick enough response to the situation) by uttering, in a thunderous tone, “Really!” in the hope that the staff would shudder and quake.

We also use this word as an opinion softener.  For example:

“Do you like marzipan?”

“Not really.”  Why not just say “No”? In this case really provides a form of apology for giving a negative response.

Other examples of really uses:

As a moderator of advice:

“You really  shouldn’t do this.”

As emphasis:

“I really don’t know.”

“She is really nice.” (As opposed to ‘un-really’ nice?)

There is a myth going around that there are more words in English than in any other European language.  We really ought to dispel it.

Or live up to it, really.

Or perhaps the Coalition could tax it.  Really!

 

 

©Scribe Doll

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Double Standards: Smoking

Posted on September 25, 2011 by Scribe Doll

As those of you who are UK based will have heard, there has been a discussion in the media, over the past week, on whether films showing scenes of people smoking should be given a Certificate 18.  On one particular report I watched, on the BBC, a film critic was saying that it was not the film industry’s job to educate teenagers.  The doctor on the other end of the couch was vehement that films with cigarette smoking scenes were influential in teenagers taking up smoking.  So, once again, Matthew Hopkins is off on a witch hunting spree.

 

Interestingly, only about sixty years ago, the medical profession, with trust-inspiring consistency, not only took part in cigarette commercials, but was known to recommend smoking for weight loss, and as being beneficial for your throat and voice.  Some of you may have seen the superb film, The King’s Speech, in which the future George VI is told by doctors that smoking will ease his stammer.

 

No.  I am not, nor have I ever been a smoker.  No.  I am not advocating smoking.  Personally, I find it unpleasant to inhale the acrid, clawing smell of ready packaged cigarettes – especially when I am eating.  It makes sense even to my medically untrained mind, that breathing in smoke laced with ammonia, cadmium, mercury and arsenic must, surely, be harmful to one’s health.  I just feel that, for the sake of fairness and a sense of proportion, smokers should not be alone in being submitted to public persecution.

 

I understand that pollution levels in London frequently reach higher levels than those permitted by the EU legislation.  I am sure we would welcome a campaign by the powers that speak out on behalf our health, to reduce these levels.  Just blow your nose after a ride on the Tube, and you will see.

 

When I was nineteen, a doctor examined an x-ray of my lungs, frowned, and told me to stop smoking.  I did not smoke.  I just lived in a city.

 

You will argue that we cannot do without cars or the Tube.  Fair enough.  But, on a polluted Earth where the price of fuel is constantly rising, and fossil fuel reserves shrinking, what exactly is the value of car and motorbike racing? I have never heard anyone pose the question.

 

We are told that teenagers are encouraged to smoke if they see actors on the screen light up a cigarette.  I will not argue with that because, in all honesty, I do not know if that is true or not.  Let us assume it is so.  In that case, why is nobody concerned about teenagers watching people drink numerous pints of beer, have a casual sex without a single thought, and inflict extreme violence on one another? Why is no one outraged by the misogynist attitudes in James Bond films? Why is no one concerned about exploring the possible influence of superficial, brainless, shoe-obsessed female characters i TV series on our teenage girls?

 

Could we get a sense of proportion over here, please? And, while we are at it, a helping of common sense?

 

See BBC report on http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/health-14971560

 

See doctors advertising Camels on http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gCMzjJjuxQI

© Scribe Doll

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Odds & Ends: The Dumb Innocent and the Wise Enchantress

Posted on September 18, 2011 by Scribe Doll

My grandmother brought me up on fairy tales.  Every evening, as daylight faded and silhouettes grew blurred, my mind’s eye would open up to the world of magic.  Talking animals would trot into our living room, princesses with stars on their foreheads and moon crescents in their hair would sit beside me, and the firebird would light up the room while trying to steal a golden apple from our fruit bowl.

 

I learnt to use fairy tales as a bartering tool at dinner time.  I would eat on condition that I was told a story.  Soon enough, the power balance shifted in my grandmother’s favour.  I would hear the end of the story only after I had wiped the plate clean.

 

Like most five year-old girls, I longed to be a fairy tale heroine – but not Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella or Snow White.  Their fates made me nervous.  After all, who would want to be so entirely dependent on a prince? What if he forgot to kiss you? What if he did not have the nous to match your foot with the ermine slipper? You could be stuck waiting for ever.  At least, as a Russian or Arabic heroine, rescuing the prince was your prerogative, so you could make sure you did the job of finding yourself a husband properly.  So there it was, the comfort zone of the control freak.

 

The contrast between Eastern and Western fairy tale heroines is particularly noteworthy where the relationship with magic is concerned.  Who casts spells in Western tales? Old, asexual fairies and young, evil witches.  In the East, the young heroines are alluring and spellbinding.

 

A recurring character in Russian fairy tales is Vassilissa the Wise.  We are told that her beauty is such, that no fairy story can narrate it nor pen describe it.  She is the daughter of the most powerful wizard of them all, and he teaches her everything he knows.  However, when she surpasses him, he casts her out with a curse upon her head.  It is Vassilissa who rescues, counsels and ultimately seduces the Prince.  As he sits with his face in his hands, hopeless in the face of impending trials, Vassilissa urges him to go to bed and sleep, because “the morning is wiser than the evening”.  Once he falls asleep, she summons all the fairy folk at her service, and goes to work on the problem.  When the Prince wakes up, she presents him with the solution.

 

The Tales of a Thousand and One Nights are also full of  stunning, resourceful women.

 

The role of the Western heroine is to be beautiful, kind and, above all, innocent… Sometimes to the point of blatant stupidity.  How can Rapunzel fail to feel the difference between a frail crone and a strapping young man climbing up her hair? Little Red Riding Hood is obtuse to the point of risibility.  Cinderella is a rag doll pushed around by a wicked stepmother, prodded forth by a fairy godmother, and finally picked up by a prince.  At no point in the story does she take a decision.  As for Sleeping Beauty, she cannot even wake herself up without a man’s help.

 

What kind of message is being given here to little girls? There is nothing you can do except be pretty and wait…

 

This is a complex subject worth exploring in a PhD thesis.  I cannot do it justice in a blog.  However, I would like to end with a perfect example which illustrates the contrast between Eastern and Western femininity.  Blue Beard  and Sheherazade.

 

Both stories share the selfsame premise.  A young woman marries a serial killer, and fights for her survival.  In Blue Beard the (nameless) heroine unlocks a closet she has expressly been forbidden to open, and stumbles on the bodies of dead wives.  When Blue Beard discovers her, he decides to kill her on the spot.  Whilst pretending to say her final prayers, the young woman shrieks for help and calls for her brothers.  They finally arrive and slay Blue Beard.  End of story.

 

In Tales of a Thousand and One Nights, Sheherazade marries a king who kills a new bride every morning.  To save herself – and put an end to the senseless murders – Sheherazade devises a ruse.  On the morning of her execution, she begs the King to grant her permission to tell one last tale to her sister.  He agrees, and stays to listen.  Hence, she starts weaving a story within a story, unravelling tales of travel, love and magic, night after night after night.  On the morning of the thousand and second day, she kneels before the King, ready to die.  However, after all this time, the King has learnt to love his wife, and value her wisdom.  Not only is Sheherazade spared but her love, her patience and her intelligence turn a brutal murderer into a just and much loved king.

 

I know which heroine is the best role model for me.  How about you?

© Scribe Doll

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Double Standards: The Ravens in the Tower

Posted on September 11, 2011 by Scribe Doll

I took one of my students to the Tower of London, last Friday.  I confess that, in the seventeen years I have lived in London, I had never been there.  Well, at least not in daytime.  I was not looking forward to seeing any of the historical evidence of human cruelty.  The sight of the Crown jewels’ sparkle left me cold.  It is no match to the opulence of the Vatican Museum, and the finery of the higher echelons of poverty-vowing churchmen.  I was amused by the sign, at the entrance, that we were about the enter the most secure room in England.  I would have assumed that to be somewhere in the MI5 building.  However, I was very excited by the prospect of seeing the famous ravens.  A friend of my local corvine neighbourhood, I could not wait to catch a glimpse of their famed cousins.  I had heard something about their wings being clipped to stop them from flying away but nothing had prepared me for the overwhelming feeling of sadness I was to experience.

 

These magnificent birds, glossy black, with knowing eyes, walk with a sideways gait, as though their body weight is unevenly distributed.  When they try to fly, they are thrown off balance, and practically topple back down.  It reminded me of a poem by Charles Baudelaire, where the sailors on a ship entertain themselves by catching an albatross* and putting him down on the deck.  The bird’s wings are too large, and his legs too short.  Once on the ground, this symbol of the high-flying poet cannot soar back into the sky but dawdles ungracefully, mocked by the vulgar, ignorant creatures who have imprisoned him.  If the albatross represents the free-spirited poet, then the highly intelligent raven – with its Arthurian associations with magic – must stand for wisdom, and the knowledge of truths ancient and mostly forgotten.   I guess with the general wilful dumbing down of this country by a string of fear-mongering and increasingly brainwashing governments, there is something disturbing in the symbolism here.  The ravens in the Tower carry the distinct mark of the cut in their wings.  Like a surgery scar denting their backs.  Their movements are consequently awkward, ridiculous, heartbreaking.  Birds decreed not to fly, by humans.  Like a handicap to keep too much intelligence and free thought in check.

 

A jovial Beefeater told me that two ravens managed to escape.  (“Good on them!” was my reaction.)  When one of them was found, he was emaciated.  Bred in captivity, these birds cannot fend for themselves in the wild.  I hated the implication that, consequently, it was jolly kind of humans to care for the ravens, feed them meat and eggs, and even cod liver oil and vitamins.  There was not even the shadow of a sense of guilt for having actively and purposefully rendered these creatures so helpless in the first place.  I do not want to hear that they are bred especially for the Tower,  that they are treated like royalty, that they are well cared for, that they feel special, that they are happy.  That they are well fed and looked after, I have no doubt.  That they are happy? Happy animals do not try to escape.  If they were happy, they would come in hoards.  Their wings would not have to be clipped.

 

And for what? According to a legend no one can actually source, if the ravens were to desert the Tower, then the Crown would fall.  It should warm the heart of all the loyal subjects in the Land, that ours is a monarchy so strong, its future depends on seven resident black birds.  Does keeping them by force not go against the philosophy of fair play the English are so proud to endorse? Does it not constitute – tut-tut, dare I say the word – cheating? And, in the 21st Century, is it just not plainly absurd?

 

I am not about to launch into a pro-Republican argument.  I have nothing against the Royal Family.  Their pastel figures do not trigger strong emotions of any kind in me (though their fashion sense does make me cringe, and wish some of our taxes could go towards the fees of a Parisian or Milanese couturier).  As for the Monarchy, I am not naive enough to believe that its demise would bring liberty, equality, fraternity – or an equal distribution of wealth among the people.  History has shown that revolutions often go from “two legs good, four legs better” to the inevitable “four legs good, two legs better”, and crowned tyrants are often replaced by uniformed oppressors or manipulators in suits.

 

 

I would just feel prouder to belong to a country that treats animals with kindness and respect.  That includes foxes, bear cubs, badgers and ravens.  Producing vegetarian cheese and vegetarian beef-flavoured crisps is not enough.

 

Gandhi phrases it perfectly: “The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated.”

© Scribe Doll

* Read the poem in the original French or in English translations on http://fleursdumal.org/poem/200

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Kisses, Handshakes and Hugs

Posted on September 4, 2011 by Scribe Doll

When my Italian, Spanish, Irish and Basque friends greet or part with me, they kiss me.  That is, their lips smack into my cheek full on, like a firm cushion.  A solid, present, committed kiss.  My English friends*, for the most part – no doubt as a sign of immense deference – choose to kiss the air next to my face, instead.  In their eagerness to plant their pursed lips on that elusive point in space, they either press their cheek against mine for a nanosecond, or collide with my cheekbone.  It leads me to suspect that these people do not really want to kiss me.  They just need my cheek as a springboard.

For all our croissants and cappuccinos, we are not “Continentals”.  Being tactile does not come naturally to the English*.  It does not sit well with centuries of emotional reserve.  Until we can find the misplaced keys to the cellar where our emotions have been carefully bottled up, any adventures in the land of cheek pecking (for it sure isn’t kissing, yet), will involve nothing but embarrassment, clumsiness, and that very English brand of self-consciousness.

I am going to get a T-shirt which says, Don’t kiss me unless you mean it.

Why do people here feel the obligation to kiss, anyway? Let us just shake hands.  I like handshakes.  They help me form an opinion about people.  Firm handshake? Warm? Sweaty? Crushing? Hasty? With straight eye contact?  A popular national style*, however, – especially among women – seems to be the fingers only handshake.  No matter how fast I try to catch the proferred hand mid-flight, it escapes me, allowing me only a squeeze of the fingers.  Then there are those who are so skillful at the game, the have perfected the art of the top two knuckles shake.  What is it with this palm and dorsal shyness?

I am going to get a velcro, hand-trapping, glove.

Hugs should be the physical equivalent of chocolate.  Belgian chocolate.  With praline.  Rich, warming and comforting.  The majority of English hugs*, however, fall into the following categories:

The Crustacean Hug: A hard collision between shoulders or collarbones, while the soft and unprotected abdominal areas are kept wide apart. Better keep them safe.

The Tapping Hug:  I always wonder why some people feel the need to tap you on the back as soon as they hug you.  Are they worried physical contact with them will trigger a coughing fit? Or is the light tap, tap, tap aimed at stopping you from getting too comfortable?  There, there.  Don’t go reading anything into this hug.

The Back Rub Hug: A couple or so single-handed, light strokes on your back, as though they are brushing off dust.  Do they think you are a baby who has just drunk too much milk and needs to have air expelled to avoid hiccups?

I am going to take up a subscription to Italian, Spanish, Irish and Basque kisses, handshakes and hugs – until my English* friends commit to a given choice of physical contact.

* Usual exceptions apply.  I just wish I could name them.

© Scribe Doll

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Pet Hates: Job Interview Platitudes

Posted on August 28, 2011 by Scribe Doll

Sorry to keep you waiting, we’re very busy today.

Tempting answer: Are you suggesting I am not busy?

 

I can honestly say that I have seldom been seen at the agreed time.  It is the would be employer who sets the time of the interview and yet still manages to run late.  Is it his/her way of hinting from the very beginning that he/she is the one with the power to put food on your table… So don’t you forget it?

 

Tell us a little about yourself.

Tempting reply: Have you not read my CV?

 

Every job seeker knows that it is of paramount importance to research the potential employer thoroughly before the interview; and yet employers get away with this blatant proof that they have barely read your CV before you walked in.  They do not seem
to realise that it comes across as a lack of respect on their part.  However carefully they dress it up by pretending that they are either trying to spot inconsistencies (are they
measuring you with their yardstick?) or that they want to hear it “in your own words” (do they think you can afford to have your CV and covering letter ghost written?), the fact is, you go in prepared, and they demonstrate a cavalier attitude towards your efforts.

 

 

What do you think you would bring to this job?

Tempting reply: You tell me! You’ve read my CV, and decided to meet me.  You know what the job entails better than I do.

 

This is your cue to start performing, blindfolded, trying not to fall off the stage, while the would be employer judges the entertainment.  Forget all the modern advice about equality
in the workplace.  This question is living proof of the power imbalance between employee and employer.

 

How do you think your colleagues would describe you?

Tempting answer: Why don’t you ask them?

 

At this stage, the would be employer is inviting you for a stroll down Paranoia Lane.  Just to throw you off balance enough to make you cling to this job for support.

 

What would you say are your strengths and weaknesses?

Tempting answer: I don’t suffer fools gladly but I need money.  Respectively.

 

This is where the would be employer is testing your lying – I mean, creative – skills.  It is also your exercise in mind reading, and trying to second-guess what he/she wants to
hear.  For qualities, safe bets are: loving team work, attention to detail (though not too much – they do not want you to notice their incompetence), hard work, loyalty (as long as you accept to give it unconditionally) and reliability (think labrador).  For weaknesses: a good one is to admit to being so work driven, that you will work forsake evenings and weekends just to get the work done.  Consequently, you sacrifice your family and friends (watch them nod approvingly).

 

We will let you know.

Aaah… I dream of a would be employer who would say, “Shall we have a chat on the ‘phone, tomorrow, and see how we both feel about working together?”

 

How do you feel the interview went?

The ultimate cat and mouse game.  When the would be employer rings you, he/she
has already decided whether or not you will be offered the job.  He/she is just asking you that for extra sport.  Like the cat who lets the mouse run a bit further, knowing that it is still within easy reach of its paw.

 

We feel that you are overqualified for this job.

Tempting answer: Then take advantage of the fact that you are getting caviar for the price of cod roe.

 

But there is no point wasting your breath.  Remember, you do not suffer fools gladly.

 

 

© Scribe Doll

 

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Trust

Posted on August 21, 2011 by Scribe Doll

Some thoughts on the painting Tobias and the Angel (circa 1470-80) by the Workshop of Verrocchio.  Egg tempera on poplar.  National Gallery, London.

Trust me, if you will.  I am loving, I am infinite, I am immortal.  I do not judge.  I am beyond all fears.  I will guide you if you ask me.  The decision is yours.  I ask nothing of you.

 

The Archangel Raphael’s sandaled feet tread lightly on the rocky soil.  He does not need the reassurance of solid ground beneath him.  He carries certainty in his tall frame, full of androgynous grace.  He turns to look down at the boy.  His face is weary from the centuries of doubt leading up to this attainment of wisdom through knowledge, but he can now draw strength from certainty.

I do not ask blind faith of you, he seems to tell the boy.  You will learn, and only then will you know and be certain.  In the meantime, trust me, if you will.  The choice is yours.

 

Raphael’s wings are scarlet and black.  They were built on the embers of passion and fear.  It cannot have been otherwise.

I do not want white wings.  I want to remember my past.  I was like you, once.  I want to remember the ashes I rose from.

 

At Raphael’s feet, trots the translucent figure of a small dog.  To warn of approaching demons.  He turns back to check that the boy is following.

Trust this stranger, boy.  Trust your heart.  Trust.

 

Tobias’s boots are firm on the ground.  He needs to feel rooted while his cloak billows in the winds of uncertainty.  He has slid a tentative hand onto the stranger’s arm.

Let me hold onto you.  I cannot take this journey alone.  Not yet.

The boy stares up at the archangel, mesmerised by the stranger’s secret knowledge.  His young body is unsteady, but the faith in his eyes is unwavering.

I want to trust.

 

His mind cannot comprehend but his heart knows that he is safe with the stranger.  He does not know, yet.  And yet he knows.

Guide me to this faraway land.  I want to learn. 

 

I want to trust.  I choose to trust. 

I am glad, says the archangel.   Walk with me.  All will be well.  The world is full of wonders.

 

© Scribe Doll

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Odds & Ends: Human Decency Is Not Dead

Posted on August 14, 2011 by Scribe Doll

The past week has brought to light a ugly side to the nation, that makes me feel deeply uneasy.  I can only hope that History will not spin the truth into a falsely glorified image of an ideologically motivated revolt of the people.  This is not 1789 Paris.  Last week’s events are the offspring of excess idle energy which, deprived of a constructive outlet, turned into destructive anger; and of the growing sense of entitlement that is corroding the country to the chore.

 

In the midst of all this landscape of soul-destroying detritus, I found a diamond.

 

Last week, the son of an American friend of mine, on his first trip to Europe, lost his mobile ‘phone at Victoria Station.  Now, this is not Tokyo, where people’s sense of honour makes it beneath their dignity to steal a mobile.  Neither is it Zurich, where the success of lost property shops is proof of a law abiding nation.  This is London, where the odds of recovering a lost ‘phone are about as high as those of ever getting an enlightened government.

 

Against the odds, the ‘phone was found by a young French woman who works here as a nanny.  She picked it up and sent text messages to a few people listed in the address book.  However, the battery was running out and, not having a matching charger, she worried that the ‘phone would die before she was able to contact the owner.  So she copied the numbers onto her own sim card.

 

A few days ago, I got in touch with her, and we arranged to meet yesterday, so that I could pick up the ‘phone.  My friend decided to give a $50 reward to whoever found it.  As I sat waiting in a South Kensington pâtisserie, and thought of the £30 I had in a sealed envelope in my bag, I felt certain that she would not accept it.  From our initial telephone conversation to the ensuing text messages we exchanged, something in the courtesy of her tone suggested quiet dignity.

 

In her place, I would not accept a reward.  Would you?

 

Of course, she would accept.  People do.  Even if they are not dishonest, most people are freeloaders who say, “why not – if it’s offered?”  They accept, as though unaware that they have either choice or responsibility.

 

My original gut feeling was strengthened at the sight of her smiling face.  A clean, open face of about twenty-two or three.  A face totally absent in the knowing, cynical and bored expressions so common among her peers.

 

It was with a sense of awkwardness that I handed her the envelope with the money, conveying my friend’s sincere gratitude.  The French girl flushed with palpable embarrassment.  “No, that’s not why I returned the ‘phone.”

I assured her that that had been obvious from the start.  She still refused the accept the envelope, shying away from it as though it would somehow taint her.  I begged her not to take offence.  I explained that, if we knew her address, we would send her a bunch of flowers or a bottle of wine, and asked her to accept the money in the spirit in was intended.

 

After several minutes of my pleading, she finally accepted.

 

And I walked away, and watched passers-by with a more hopeful eye for the rest of the day.

 

© Scribe Doll

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