Tag Archives: life

Memories of a godfather

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The only thing that stops me being smug about having a godfather who was in the SAS is that I actually have two of them. Or had. Now down to one, Uncle P having died a couple of weeks ago.

I was at the thanksgiving service, though I hadn’t seen him since (I think) I was a teenager. I was told by his second wife, who I’d never met at all, that he often said he could have been a better godfather. When I became a godfather myself I vowed I would stay in touch with the boys for as long as was possible and they wanted: to be fair, they’re still boys (okay, young men) and staying in touch is quite easy as they tend to be, more or less, in the same place as their parents. And we have Facebook. Not when I was a lad, we didn’t, and anyway, I honestly can’t see my father or Uncle P embracing that particular technology. So it’s quite possible he stayed in touch for just as long as a not particularly religious godfather could reasonably be expected to. He certainly came to my Confirmation.

Two things I learned about him that made me wish I had known him better. One is that he was at the famous Farnborough airshow where a plane crashed, killing 27 spectators, almost including him. Fortunately his military training had taught him to duck.

The other was when P and a friend were having a late night drink in P’s flat and it became obvious from noises off that in the flat below a man was beating up a woman. P went downstairs, kicked the door in, and informed the man that he thoroughly disapproved and the lady was to be allowed to go home now. Which she did. The next day the man crept upstairs and tentatively asked if he could borrow a screwdriver.

In a film of his life, of course, kicking down the door would have just been the overture to some lavishly depicted surgical violence, and everyone would be cheering. Real life is so much better. Kicking in the door released P’s aggression, and indicated the violence he could have unleashed if the man didn’t stop. Against that kind of backdrop the implication of violence is so much more effective, and gentlemanly, and self-controlled; anyway, P had to continue with this guy as a neighbour.

Definitely my kind of godfather.

The day I met a Knight of St John

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Many years ago my good wife was au pair to the families of a pair of sisters, whose mother was one of those ladies often described as ‘indomitable’. The kind on whom the British Empire was built. I had the privilege of meeting her once but could happily have done with more. She died at the age of 92 and on Friday we were at a thanksgiving mass for her life.
Born in Kenya, she apparently had this recent exchange with a Kenyan immigration official:
“How long are you staying in Kenya?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you visited Kenya before?”
“Yes.”
“How long did you stay then?”
“Sixty years.”
Anecdotes about her life included finding a gun lying around in the house of one of the suspects in the White Mischief murder. “Don’t ask,” she was advised, so she didn’t, and quietly put it back.
A lovely service with some good tunes: ‘How great thou art’, ‘I, the Lord of sea and sky’ (a surprisingly modern choice) and, um, The Battle Hymn of the Republic. I’d quite like that last one at my own funeral, but for me the only version worth having is performed by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and the vicar might have something to say about that.
Anyway. I was moved by the service and also by something else even closer to my heart. There’s a biblical passage where we’re enjoined not to take the seat of honour at a gathering, because someone more important may turn up and we’ll be hideously embarrassed to have to go and sit somewhere else. Instead, says Jesus, sit at the back so that you can be guided up to a more important position by the host.
Which is exactly what happened to us. All prepared to sit quietly at the back, one of the grandsons that Beloved had looked after as a small boy firmly guided us further up the church, assuring us (well, her) that we’re family. That was just the start of an afternoon that made me feel truly privileged, because men and women she hadn’t seen for decades were falling on her and hugging her and thanking her for coming, and I realised how much she had touched their lives way back when, and now I have the blessing of being married to her.
And the Knight of St John? He was actually the priest conducting the service. I noticed this strange cross a bit like the Blue Max bobbing at his throat as the service went on, but as he probably wasn’t a German WWI fighter ace I had no idea what it could be. Afterwards we shook hands, and I asked, and he told me. Cor, knock me down with a feather.
The Reverend Father knows, let’s say, how to work a room. Voice trembling with emotion – he was an old friend of the departed – he told during his homily how, on the day she died, he had been driving in the country, and stopped for a sandwich, and a little robin alighted upon his arm, whereupon he fed the small creature a few crumbs and it flew off again. “I don’t know what you think of that,” he finished.
Later the oldest grandson privately told us exactly what he thought: “I think you’re a f&^%ing liar, Father!” But he said it with a big smile, and grandmother would have had a good laugh.

Where’s Michael Winner when you need him?

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Friday morning: bin collection day. The binnies can come quite early so we always put the bins out the previous night. This week, grey bin and food bin.

Except that when I left the house this morning there was no sign of the food bin. I stopped the car at the entrance to the drive to ponder its absence. Had it been abducted into the food bin slave trade? Was it an early victim of tomorrow’s Rapture?

No, it was lying in two pieces on the other side of the road, and our split-open food bag was lying in the gutter. I’m sure it led to much entertainment for the rush hour traffic as I dodged cars to get across and bring back the fragments. I’m guessing someone moved it from the driveway into the centre of the road, for the lulz. The driver who hit it probably isn’t accountable. Probably.

Sorting it all out meant popping back upstairs for kitchen roll and a fresh food bag, trying not to touch anything because my hands were filthy, then loading up the fresh bag with the remains of the food. Coffee grounds … egg shells … rotting vegetables … lovely. At the back of my mind I was aware of a car beeping its horn but I wasn’t too worried because I could see no one was trying to leave the property, so I didn’t think I was blocking anyone.

Turned out I was blocking someone trying to gain access, though, to visit our neighbouring flat. Immediately I noticed the car I went over to it, filthy hands held up in explanation, but she got in first with the dialogue:

“Look, are you going to move your car?” (says the total stranger with no access rights to the person who actually lives there.)

“I will. I’m having an emergency.” (Hands still up, plus she had just clearly seen me put the remains of the food bin into the grey bin.)

“What emergency?” (Explanation of emergency in rising tones of irritation.) “So is that my fault? Are you going to move your car?”

Oh, how I wish I could have that five minutes back again to be decently, properly rude instead of just blowing my top at the uncivil ungracious self-obsessed baggage, which is the easy option and loses moral authority. Suggestions from helpful colleagues when I finally got into the office were:

  • The Michael Winner option: “Calm down, dear …”
  • (holding hands up) “Do you want me to touch you?”
  • (leaning on bonnet with dirty hand) “Now look, sweetie …”
  • “Give us a kiss and tell me your problems …”