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SOLTIMES JULY 2010
Pause For Thought... Attached to our garage we have a room variously used as storeroom, games-room, and when family visit in the summer, Granny Flat. The other day however, when in preparation for the impending family holidays I tried to enter, the handle to the outside door, never I confess its best feature, came off in my hand, the main shaft having rusted through. Big problem, as the remnants of the shaft still inside the door couldn’t be extracted from the outside and blocked any hope of using a screwdriver or other implement to release the catch. The door therefore was firmly shut and could only be opened from the inside! Fortunately, as it happens, this room can also be accessed from the garage, so I was able to gain entry and open the offending door from within and am now tasked with removing and replacing the damaged parts. But the incident, trivial though it may have been, necessarily reminded me of Holman Hunt’s famous picture, ‘The Light of the World’, which shows Jesus knocking at a door with no handle on the outside. That door, like the one that caused me trouble, could only be opened by someone within. So in the Bible Jesus says, “Here I am, standing at the door, knocking. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and dine with them.” And as in the picture, so in our lives it is only we ourselves who can open the door to God – He never forces himself on us.
Duncan Burr is Licensed Lay Reader for the Anglican Chaplaincy of Costa Almeria and Costa Cálida email: djburr@avired.com
The World According To Walsh
There are a number of English Language Churches in the region for any wishing to Worship. For further information about the Anglican Church, the service of Communion held in Albox on the last Thursday of each month and of forthcoming events go to www.mojacarchurch.org
What is it that they build into the doorways of shoe shops that have this instant magnetic effect on my wife? We may be browsing shop windows, perhaps taking a pleasant stroll, or on our way to meet some friends. And even if we are already running late, it’s as if my wife’s underwear is lined with iron filings, and there is a whacking great magnet strategically placed just inside the entrance, because she is invariably pulled violently through the portals of the zapateria! It’s a bit like the old Martini adverts: “Any time, Any place, Any where”! I know I am not alone in this, all my friends tell me that it’s the same with their other halves. They would take their lives in their hands and cross a six-lane highway in the middle of Cairo if that’s what it took to get to the shoe shop. You rarely see one close down; and if they do it’s because they have either banned women, or the owners have cashed in and gone swanning off to early retirement. I bet if you looked at all the millionaires living in The Seychelles, you would find that most of them are ex-shoe shop owners. I have never had the courage to actually count the number of pairs of shoes/boots/sandals/flip flops/ slippers/snow shoes/wellies that my wife has accumulated, but I am confident that it would probably provide the entire population of West Sussex with footwear for a year. And it’s the same with handbags. They gaze like children at Christmastime through the windows of bag shops; their eyes glaze over and as if in a trance, they are compelled to enter. Actually it’s all quite clever, because the purchase of either of these products is a handy
The Final Dilemma Hardly a page is turned without our learning about yet another scientific breakthrough that will repair our ravaged bodies or prolong our lives. Advances in genetic science are particularly rampant, which is already throwing up some terrible dilemmas. It is believed that scientists already know how to extend our lives by decades. Telomerase is a naturally forming enzyme in the body that could prevent cells dying and so lead to extended, healthier life spans. A team of scientists at the Spanish National Cancer Centre in Madrid tested their theory on mice. They discovered that those genetically engineered to produce 10 times the normal levels of telomerase lived 50 percent longer than normal. Maria Blasco, who led the research, told the New Scientist magazine the enzyme was capable of turning ‘a normal, mortal cell into an immortal cell’. She added that she was optimistic that a similar approach may eventually lead to extended human life spans. It will present an almost insurmountable political and moral impasse against which debates over abortion and euthanasia will be insignificant. Who will control this new science and most problematic of all who will decide who gets to be immortal? Will there be affirmative action quotas? Will it apply for example to millions of starving Africans? What happens if say China gives free rein whilst others do not? There are insufficient natural resources to sustain those millions. It couldn’t happen? Stalin starved millions so that the economy could be boosted by the export of the grain needed to feed them. Reducing populations at the expense of others (ethnic cleansing) has been going on for centuries. Social engineers will soon be caught between a rock and a hard place. There will be national passions aroused as the faceless unelected decide who are to be preserved and who will be given over so nature may take its course? For some there will be no escaping the Grim Reaper. But will the educated, the powerful, the influential, be able to buy their way to the top of the queue when the jabs are being rationed? Will a lottery be the answer or perhaps life on earth privileges extended to those who opt to die so that others may live? Imagine the consequences if political scientists consider some ethnic groups more worthy than are others? It is a dilemma so problematic that the discovery may well have already been made and the pros and cons already being hammered out behind closed doors. Would they tell you?
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It’s In The Bag! justification to purchase the other. “Oh look at those red court shoes, just what I have been looking for to go with that red handbag I bought last week.” Ah yes I think, but you bought that handbag to go with the red sandals you bought the week before that. But I say nothing. It really cracks me up when the subject comes up in conversation with friends, and the missus always tells them that I have as many shoes as she does. “The bottom of his wardrobe is full of shoes”, she informs them. “I bet if you counted the shoes in his wardrobe, and the shoes in my wardrobe, he would have more”. I don’t doubt that – it’s almost certainly true. But what she doesn’t tell them is that all the available space under all of the beds, in all of the bedrooms, is filled up with ladies shoes. That there is shoebox after shoebox stacked on shelves in the garage – there has even been a hint that perhaps the car should sit out on the drive, to make more room. And we have purchased special pine shoe storage units that are sitting next to me here in my office as I write.
It wouldn’t surprise me to find a pair or two in the refrigerator . . . she’ll be asking me to move my beer out next! With shoes and handbags, we have the equivalent of the entire cow population of Switzerland. And that’s another thing . . . How do we know that they are leather as claimed? I mean, all of us have had shoes or gloves or a wallet waved under our noses at some point in the past and told that this is leather, and thus anything from then on with the same whiff must be the real McCoy. But go on – how many of you have actually sniffed a cow? No me neither, and although I have been pretty close, the pong that I got was definitely not what was always described to me as leather. I don’t intend trying it anytime soon either – I am sure that it would be an arrestable offence. Can you imagine being caught red-handed sniffing Daisy and being hauled in front of a judge? Your life would be over - 6 months community service and put on the cattle sniffing register as a convicted pervert. No I’ll take their word for it.
By Colin Bird
He’s Behind You…
To my horror I recently discovered that an old pantomime ‘baddie’ from my younger years had tracked me down and was living in close proximity to my new Spanish haven…. Its true, well almost. I was pleasantly surprised in fact to read an article by Colin Bird in the Sol Times a few weeks ago. The piece in reference was accompanied by a photograph which is why I instantly recognised him as the (please correct me if I am wrong) writer, producer and moreover the star of all those Wickhambrook pantomimes that my sister and I looked forward to so hungrily.
His name alone conjures up a snap shot image from one of those special winter evenings; His evilness stood against the creepy green back light, dry ice swirled around his feet, his bespoke purple gown and turban encrusted with rubies and plumes and a pre-teenage girls monthly allowance of eyeliner and glitter applied to his face. The only thing that deflated the rising fear was the intermitting prompt from the loyal prompt lady in the corner and the tuck shop splendour during the half time interval. As if there wasn’t enough sparkle to the evening Colin’s ‘misunderstood’ trench man would then cherry pick a lucky girl or boy from the audience before the second half and after a very shy interview they would lob down handfuls of pic’n’mix to the adoring crowd. During the last few years of pantomime attendance by big grown up sister, Kerry, moved to the area and joined the cast which just heightened the excitement. I remember as soon as the programmes were dished out frantically flicking through them in the half light until I found the page with her profile on so I could show my friends my ‘famous’ big sister. And I believe the legacy continues as my niece, Grace, is now involved with the production. In closing this magical memoir I would like to say on behalf of my sister and myself a big thank you to Colin Bird et al for all those rambunctious January evenings throughout my junior years.
By Fiona Robinson
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