Mulled Vine

Have you ever wondered what people are really like, what they think, what they do when no one is looking? I did, that fateful morning, and it was my undoing.

It was an ordinary Sunday, much like any other. Spring was in the air and I could sense a corporate reluctance from my flock. I had prepared a fairly decent sermon on Grace, intended to instruct and to encourage, but not many were paying attention. Even the normally attentive Harold Withington had dozed off in his usual seat, much to his wife Arma’s annoyance – she was very concerned about appearances. So I was glad to reach the end and announce the closing hymn.

The congregation rose with a collective sigh, and as it was preparing itself during the organ prelude it struck me: they were all fakes!

Mrs Andrews in the front pew, singing with arrogant shrills above the rest, excessively proud of having studied music at London Royal College of Music. Her husband James, whom I knew was having a torrid affair with young Maisie two rows back (obviously not during the sermon). Why even Harold, old saint that he was, had a gambling problem that I’d had to rescue him from repeatedly.

Yet despite this, they paraded like perfect little Christians, with impeccable, fine smiles, secretly looking down on each other, forgetting deliberately the great heights from which we all have fallen, and the immense price paid to get them back there.

So after the hymn I announced that no one was to leave their seats. It was time for detention Bible style. They sat stunned, looking at their old pastor, not quite sure what to expect.

I then started to pray, oh how I started to pray! I prayed that the Lord would deliver my flock from their sins, that they would mend their wicked ways, that they would learn to love each other, that they would care for the poor and so on. I sensed the congregation getting restless, but nobody moved because we were in the presence of the Almighty.

Then I stopped and we waited. We waited for the Spirit of God to move among us. Nobody moved. Nobody talked. At least until suddenly Harold started from his slumber and leapt up shouting, “Don’t Panic Mr Mainwaring, don’t panic!”

The congregation collapsed with laughter at the old Dad’s Army quote, and that was it, the moment had passed: God had spoken, or perhaps not. Who knew?

I hung up my collar and frock in disgust and walked out never to return.

They were All fakes.

He opened the door and saw her before him, a pretty young blonde woman with a bright, perky smile, holding a wad of attractive leaflets. Her smile wavered slightly when she saw him, and he knew why – it was a familiar experience for him – he was ugly.

He was so ugly in fact that his father used to joke to his friends that the doctor slapped the mother at birth, causing everyone to laugh, thinking that the boy was asleep, rather than cowered at the top of the stairs, tears flowing down his disfigured cheeks.

The woman on his doorstep recovered her composure, held out a leaflet and said, “Did you know that Jesus loves you?”

He looked at her kindly, conscious of his coarse, gnarled hands, his broken smile and twisted countenance, and recalling the years of lonely pain and sorrow replied, “Does he?”

She stood silent for a while, gazing at this broken creature before her, then reached forward, took hold of his hands in hers, and wept.

“Spare some change?” he whined, sitting on a ragged blanket next to the train station, frozen hands outstretched in pointless supplication. The busy, purposeful crowds walked by him, ignoring the shivering, pathetic figure that threatened to spoil their day with tinges of guilt.

The boy noticed an old man standing nearby, gazing dreamily over London Bridge at the Thames, not smartly dressed or busy like the others, but full of graceful poise and dignity, a timeless statue in a sea of hurried oblivion. He reminded the boy of his grandfather, warm and gentle, brimming full of playful laughter and endless patience, and soon a flood of painful memories of happier times overwhelmed him.

“Oi, mister, spare some change?” he chimed hopefully, sensing that perhaps this man would be different.

The man turned to him, and spat. “You’re in my spot.”

The barren wasteland lay in front of him, blindingly white, devoid of detail, an endless emptiness.
Nearby birds sang silly songs and children played, laughing, crying, oblivious to the lost wanderer just a few moments away.
Downstairs she hummed quietly to herself, love songs from younger more passionate times.
Suddenly before him a shape gradually appeared, at first a mirage he thought, but then no, it was full of detail: tangible, refreshing, taking the form of his lost muse.

The typewriter clattered into action.

At what point did I stop being young? I mean, in my mind I am say twenty something, but in the mirror there is the chap who looks like me, but more like me after a few days in the tumble dryer. Its very distressing actually, so no laughing. So the other day, right, this young lass says I’m rad, which any idiot can work out is short for the word radical. However I didn’t think I was being particularly radical so some other meaning was in mind I’m sure, but was it good or bad, and if it was bad, was it bad like in good or like in wicked, and if wicked which wicked, wicked good or wicked bad?? My daughter tells me to get with the program, which is a relief because I know how to program.

You know those moments, the ones you wish you could have over, the ones that return to you in your nightmares?

I was talking to a friend at church the other week, and wanted to refer to a lady we both knew but couldn’t remember her name. She is one of those people who stands up front during worship for the purposes of the hearing impaired – she uses her hands and facial expressions to offer an alternative form of worship. Its a beautiful thing to watch.

But for the life of me I couldn’t remember what you called what she did, so I said: “You know, the woman up front, the one who does the … the … miming.”

How they laughed!

How does one sign “idiot”?

I have had so many sex changes that I simply forget most of the time if I’m man or woman. It would be all right if we walked around naked and a quick inspection would sort out the confusion, but we don’t, and its very difficult under layers of cloth to discern the boob from the moob.

You may laugh, but it’s not funny: imagine ending up in the gents when you’re in a dress, imagine fingering the lingerie and having a security guard eye you suspiciously, imagine inviting a bloke home and then realising your dreadful mistake.

I don’t know what to do – I’ve seen psychiatrists but they just want to write papers about me – that weirdo Freud is responsible for all of that! I don’t need them; I know when my confusion began: it was when I filled in my first form at a young age and they asked the question “Sex?” to which I thought, “Ok, why not?”

I remember the day God decided to smash our lives against the great anvil of suffering.

It all began benignly enough I suppose, the late nights, the racing thoughts, the endless scribbling in her diary, the midnight awakenings full of burdened questions, but then came the awful imaginings, the voices and the suspicion, leading finally to deep paranoia and hospitalisation.

I left her there, my beloved wife, for a time, desperate, guilt-ridden at not coping better, my mind full of black images of padded cells, manic laughter, rapist male nurses, and my heart broke like never before. I looked up at the sky, seeking meaning and comfort from the God that did this to us, but found just the stars, magnificent in their random splendour.

Now things are calmer, and the anvil rings less loudly in our lives, dulled by the sedation of medication, the hardening of my heart, the unbelievable resilience of our children, and I wonder if it was all worth it, whether there was any purpose in it all.

I’ll ask Him that, one day, perhaps, assuming of course I still have faith.

The barren wasteland lay in front of him, blindingly white, devoid of detail, an endless emptiness.
Nearby birds sang silly songs and children played, laughing, crying, oblivious to the lost wanderer just a few moments away.
Downstairs she hummed quietly to herself, love songs from younger more passionate times.
Suddenly before him a shape gradually appeared, at first a mirage he thought, but then no, it was full of detail: tangible, refreshing, taking the form of his lost muse.

The typewriter clattered into action.

At what point did I stop being young? I mean, in my mind I am say twenty something, but in the mirror there is the chap who looks like me, but more like me after a few days in the tumble dryer. Its very distressing actually, so no laughing. So the other day, this young lass says I’m rad, which any idiot can work out is short for the word radical. However I didn’t think I was being particularly radical so some other meaning was in mind I’m sure, but was it good or bad, and if it was bad, was it bad like in good or like in wicked, and if wicked which wicked, wicked good or wicked bad?? My daughter tells me to get with the program, which is a relief because I know how to program.