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The Red Light District of Mumbai

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So, deciding to be brave, I went to the red-light district of a Mumbai slum. Husband was working, so I contacted Tearfund, and they arranged for me to visit one of their projects. Beforehand, I was very nervous about going on my own, but I am so glad I did it.

I was met by Max, who is the director of Sahaara. We’ve never met, so it was a little like a spy story -“I will be under the arch with a pink carnation in my buttonhole” (Well, actually, he just told reception who he was and we met in the hotel lobby, but you get the idea.) We then got a taxi to Turbhe, the area of the slum he works in. We chatted in the car, and I could check on a few things I’ve included in my latest novel (which is set partly in the slums of Delhi).

As we walked through the slums, it was all very similar to places I saw in Delhi: homes made from scavenged materials, uneven walls, unglazed windows, corrugated iron roofs. The hard mud paths were litter strewn – in a couple of weeks they’ll be quagmires of wet mud.

 

 

Roads were pot holed, narrow, stalls and heaps of rubbish making obstacles for vehicles to inch around. At one point the road was blocked as a lorry driver was asleep, curled up over the steering wheel, oblivious to the honking from other drivers who were unable to pass.

 

 

We first went to a building (actually, it was really just a narrow room) which is a feeding centre/education room. In May, everything closes (due to the heat) but they were still providing a mid-day meal. They had two gas burners, one with a pressure cooker of dhal, one with a vat of rice.

 

 

 

 

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There was a bowl of hard boiled eggs, which they must’ve cooked earlier. No work-surface (no idea how they chop vegetables – they must do it in their hand, on a plate balanced somewhere). No sink, no running water. There were cupboards, some of them very high. At one point a woman climbed, a foot on a shelf, other foot on the top of a cupboard door, to reach plates from a top cupboard. Metal plates were stacked on a drainer.

 

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They were washed in a bucket on the floor, the water carried in from an outside water butt.
Water is piped into the slum once in the morning, once in the evening, and people fill containers to use throughout the day.

The children arrived. Black-eyed, smiling, interested to see a big white woman sitting in their room (I feel huge in India. Everyone is smaller than me. Husband is a giant here.) I took lots of photos, but I’m uncomfortable about publishing them here, as most of the children had mothers who were sex workers. I will include fuzzy ones of backs, but not include faces, and hope that preserves their anonymity (we were on the edge of the red light district, I could photograph houses on the left, not on the right.)

These children were growing up in an environment where prostitution is the norm. Sahaara is educating them, so they don’t follow their mothers into the same profession, so they will have choices in life.
Previously, they found that some children arrived only for the food. Sahaara therefore made a rule: if the kids don’t attend lessons, they can’t eat. People complained, but now they all come to lessons. Seems a wise decision to me – if we just feed the poor, they will always be poor. (This is why I like Tearfund/Sahaara – they sometimes make unpopular decisions if it is for a greater good.)

IMG_2095They showed me the toilet – a room with a drain, a bucket, and a ladle. Absolutely no idea how it should be used (thankfully, was just a morning visit, I didn’t need to use a loo). Max told me that families are more likely to have a mobile phone than a toilet. There was also a fridge (not in the toilet, just in the room).

While we were there, the power went out. This happens every Friday. There isn’t enough electricity, so different areas of the slums have no power for certain times during the week. They never know how long the power-cut will last, sometimes a few hours, but when I was there it came back on after about 30 minutes. The fridge whirred back into life and the ceiling fan stirred the warm air. It would make the fridge pretty useless for anything other than drinks though.

We walked through the red light district. The houses here were slightly better, I guess it pays well. Each little house had 3 or 4 women outside, just sitting on chairs or on the floor. I thought they were sitting in the shade, chatting to each other. (Later, realised they were soliciting customers – am a bit naive about such things). Sahaara has a second centre in the heart of the red light district.

Here, they chat to the women, teach them skills like sewing, hairdressing, making things from junk – enabling them to have life choices if they want to choose a different career.
Max said it’s about caring for the women, showing them that God loves them, that they have worth, that they matter. Sahaara has a 9 point plan, starting with recognising the women, then greeting them, then befriending them, then inviting them to the centre, then the women coming on their own…. until, hopefully, they will decide they want to leave. If they do, then there are safe houses they can go to, to adjust to life outside the red light district, somewhere they can start to rebuild their lives.

Usually the centre is shut during May, but they opened it to show me inside. When they saw it was open, a couple of women came in, to see what was happening.

Back at the other centre, about 35 children sat on the floor. One child said grace (I think it was in English, which seems bizarre, as they all spoke Hindi. But I was tired, brain was fuzzy by then, so maybe was imagining it).
They ate from the tin plates, no cutlery, scooping the food with their right hands. The women were busy, one dishing up the food on plates, the others taking it round to the kids. I nearly offered to help, but then I realised, it was like Lunch Club at home. Everyone had a role and knew what they were doing, the last thing they wanted was some big foreign woman getting in the way!

We got a taxi back to the hotel, and Max delivered me safely to the lobby. I was so glad I had been, met the women, seen the children. It makes it easier to support the work and talk about it to others. Everyone has a different story. Some of the women would have been trafficked as children, some had gone into prostitution by choice, because their options were very limited. Max said they work with everyone, the prostitutes, their children, the pimps. They all need to be cared for.

It would be easy to judge, but their lives are tougher than ours, we are not so very different inside. If Sally finds she cannot make enough money from rent, she may well decide to go back to her village, to buy a young girl, to act as her pimp, so she can feed her own child. Not because she is more wicked than you or me, but because she has grown up in a harsher place, where survival means hard choices.

Sahaara is trying to show that God loves them, wants a better life for them and their children, and is teaching them the skills so they can make that choice. But the decision has to be theirs. All Sahaara can do is give them the choice. All we can do is help to provide the resources, and pray.

Thank you for reading. If you would like to help support Sahaara or learn more about their work, go to tearfund.org for more details.

anneethompson.com

 

I have included some of the women’s stories in my latest novel:
CLARA – A Good Psychopath?
Available from bookshops and Amazon, as both a paperback and Kindle book.
Why not buy a copy today?
UK link below

Mumbai, India

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 I am writing this in Mumbai. Husband has to work in India for a few days, and travelling on work expenses is always rather nice (I pay for my travel & food, but the hotel is no extra, and they’re nice!) so I tagged along. Plus I love India, it’s possibly my favourite country (not that I have seen more than a snippet of it -but what I’ve seen, I like.)

We arrived late Wednesday night, having woken early that morning (left home 5.45 am), so I was tired. We had to go through different immigration, as I was travelling on a tourist visa, and husband had a work one. The woman at the desk was very pleasant, and when husband pointed out for the sixth time where he would meet me, she laughed. When he went off to his work visa desk, she commented that he seemed very worried about me.

“Yes,” I smiled, “he thinks I’m incompetent.”

Immigration officer then asked for my visa. I gave her the print out with the hotel details on. (They look the same, both printed from the computer.) She politely asked if I also had a visa.

She then asked where I had come from. I was surprised, but gave my full postal address. I even remembered the postcode, which often defeats me, so felt rather pleased with myself. Immigration officer looked confused and asked for my boarding pass. It was somewhat crumpled, but I dug it out from the bottom of my bag, then realised my mistake. “Heathrow!” I said, ” You wanted me to say Heathrow, not my address, didn’t you!”

Immigration officer continued to smile. We then had trouble making the fingerprint machine work (but I don’t think that was my fault.) Eventually I was allowed into India. I think Immigration Officer went for a tea break.

We’re staying at the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel. It’s beautiful. There was a mix up with our booking (also not my fault) and as a goodwill gesture, they upgraded us to a suite. The hotel really is beautiful. There are flowers and candles everywhere, and the corridors are all open, with lots of carved lattice work.

When we returned yesterday evening, there were patterns of flower petals everywhere, so pretty. (Romantic husband referred to them as ‘vegetation on the floor’ ).

 

 

 

 

 

 

Walked to Gateway to India. Lots of people there, some were catching ferries across the sea. It was previously owned by Portugal, (the Portuguese for good is ‘bom’ and its a bay, hence was called Bombay).

 

 

 

 

We went to a market and bartered for some trinkets. I am not very good at bartering, especially when the crafts are actually very pretty, and the price seems to be low to start with. Tradesmen smile a lot when I shop (and tell me not to bring my husband next time, because he’s cannier than me!)

Wandered around the city. I love the faded colonial buildings covered in vines, the huge plants, the colour everywhere. Every sense is bombarded, so much noise and smell (not always pleasant), and so hot. We met some friends for lunch. They said that in a couple of weeks the rain will come, sometimes raining for several days continually, which cools everything down.

I also visited the slums on the mainland, where I was shown around by Sahaara, one of the projects Tearfund works with. I went on my own, as Husband is working (very brave of me!) I will write up what I saw and post it later this week. Right now, I need a shower!

Excuse the bleary photos -all taken with my ancient phone.
Take care,

Anne x

Why not sign up to follow my blog?
anneethompson.com

 

If you enjoyed this, you will love my new book: The Sarcastic Mother’s Holiday Diary.
I have always written a diary on holiday, so last Christmas, I decided to find all my old diaries and blogs, and make a book for my children. However, several other people also asked for a copy, so I have written a public version – it’s available on Amazon and has been described as “The Durrells meet Bill Bryson”!

Why not buy a copy today? I think it will make you laugh.

The US link is here:

https://www.amazon.com/Sarcastic-Mothers-Holiday-Diary-ebook/dp/B07N95281F/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1549015525&sr=8-1&keywords=the+sarcastic+mothers+holiday+diary

The India link is here:

https://www.amazon.in/Sarcastic-Mothers-Holiday-Diary-ebook/dp/B07N95281F/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1549015429&sr=8-1&keywords=the+sarcastic+mothers+holiday+diary

The UK link is here:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Sarcastic-Mothers-Holiday-Diary-ebook/dp/B07N95281F/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1549014970&sr=8-2&keywords=the+sarcastic+mothers+holiday+diary

 

Smelling Like Marilyn….

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Ah, the problem of what to wear. I had been invited to London, which is pretty much a foreign country as I go there so rarely. I knew the day would involve some walking, then a lunch in a posh dining room – so what should I wear? I was fairly confident muddy jeans and wellies weren’t appropriate. Perused wardrobe and began sorting outfits. In the end, I was restricted – in both senses of the word – by finding clothes that actually fit. My weight tends to fluctuate (joys of being an older woman) and I’m having a ‘fat tummy phase’. I eventually leave in a too-tight skirt and a silk blouse that gapes. I carry heels and wear flats. I so wish I was a man sometimes.

Arrived in Grosvenor Street, where we were meeting, on time. Nice walk from Victoria. We then met our guide, Cindy, who gave us a quick introduction. The plan was to visit a few shops in Savile Row and Jermyn Street – tailors to the rich and famous. No, we weren’t shopping (phew) we were having a tour. It turned out to be very interesting.

First stop was Floris, one of the oldest perfumeries in the world (apparently). We met Edward, who is the 9th generation of his family to own the shop. They have 17 royal warrents, and we saw the ledger showing the perfume the Queen orders (she pays by cheque or postal order). We also smelled the perfume that both Winston Churchill and Eva Peron wore (I didn’t much like it).

We were invited into the back room, where a lady with lilac coloured hair described the bespoke service the shop offers. As we stood in the old, low ceilinged room, surrounded by glass cabinets from a former age, I felt like I’d walked into a Harry Potter film and was choosing a magic wand.

For a mere £450, you can have a 2 hour appointment with Madam Lilac Hair (not her real name) and design your own perfume. She used lots of phrases like “main notes” and “complementaries” to describe the process, which starts with 60 different bases.

The perfume should be kept in a box, and preferably in the fridge. It should last for a year, after which time, the alcohol base starts to ‘go off’ and smell bad. (I didn’t tell her that I have perfume from about ten years ago).

As we left, I was chatting to the guide about the perfume Marilyn Monroe wore. She sneaked me into a side room, opened a drawer, and sprayed some on my wrist. How exciting! I feel very desirable now….

We then popped to Turbull and Asser in Jermyn Street – the makers of bespoke shirts for royalty. They showed us how they use patterns drawn on brown paper, which are then sent off in “shirt bags” (which are really just big envelopes) to a factory where they are digitalised. Their customers include Charlie Chaplin, Churchill, and a certain American president who asked for them to be made without the label, so no-one would know they were made in England!

All the shirts are cotton, and they don’t glue the fabric to the stiffener in the collar, as apparently this shortens the life. (Someone needs to tell Mr M&S that. Or perhaps they have…) It costs £255 for a shirt, but a new customer is expected to order at least six.

Next stop was Gieves and Hawkes (pronounced with a hard ‘g’). They make both made-to-measure and bespoke suits. (Made-to-measure is fitted onto a basic block, and the customer then has it fitted and chooses the fabric. Bespoke begins with brown paper, cut into a pattern.) A bespoke suit starts at £6,000 and will take 12 weeks.

We were taken upstairs to the archive room. Glass cases ran along one wall, filled with the red coats and gold helmets of the Queen’s bodyguards. They make, maintain and fit the uniforms. We were allowed to hold a helmet, which was surprisingly light (it’s made from brass and coated in gold, with a gold filigree pattern moulded on). We were told not to take photographs (shame) as they would be fired. The red coats are made from a heavy wool cloth, so it doesn’t warp when the epaulets and sword are added. They must be boiling hot to wear, and summer is a busy time due to garden parties and state visits (the next one is a visit from the Prime Minister of Spain). The uniforms are worn 12 times a year, and you have to be a rank of major or above to be body guard to the Queen.

Our final stop was Huntsman, who make hunting clothes. It was the shop that inspired the film “Kingsmen”. We arrived in the reception area, which had heavy leather chairs, newspapers, chocolates and drinks, and peonies in a vase. All very dignified. Below us, 14 people were working in the basement, making suits for people like Nicole Kidman and the royal family.

Actually, these places aren’t called ‘shops’. A little history: in 1666 there was the great fire of London. Afterwards, everyone was very keen to blame the French (English people still like to blame the French for everything. It’s not considered racist, though I’m not sure why. Perhaps because they once beat us up and we have very long memories.) Anyway, King Charles II wore French fashions, lots of frills, and this was politically a bad move. So he switched to an English made suit, which included a waistcoat. Yep, the first three-piece suit was apparently Charles II’s fault (even though Husband assures me only Germans wear waistcoats today.)

Anyway, following this, the coffee houses grew up. Men met, and instead of getting drunk, they became stimulated (all that caffeine) and began to plan insurance companies and such like. They regularly met their friends for coffee, and discussed business; but sometimes, someone would arrive who they didn’t like. So they created a membership system – hence the birth of gentlemen’s clubs. As lots of men were gathering in a fairly small area of London, there also grew up brothels (a surprising number for the area under discussion.) The place then became almost exclusively the domain of men, and women of a certain profession. As the men walked between the clubs and the brothels, they went along Jermyn Street, so it became the place that high class tailors set up shop. They then wanted to expand, into Savile Row, but that was an exclusive residential area, which didn’t want tradesmen. So the tailors had ‘houses’, not ‘shops’. Not everyone was invited to buy from them, and at one time, you needed two letters of introduction before a tailor would see you.

However, I found everyone to be charming and helpful, and very happy to show us round and explain things. I expect it was because I smelled like Marilyn….

xxxxx

Thank you for reading.

If you enjoyed this, why not sign up to follow my blog?

anneethompson.com

Guardians of the Galaxy (No spoilers!) and Life in General

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It was Bank Holiday Monday, raining (of course) so we decided to go to the cinema. They were showing Guardians of the Galaxy 2, what could be better?

The cinema was full, but we got there in plenty of time and found our pre-booked seats. I knew it was going to be a good film right from the beginning, when a cute little tree man dances through the opening credits while a war rages around him. The film was visually pleasing, with lots of colour and pretty scenes (makers of Star Wars should take note). Lots of attractive women who were strangely coloured. It made you want to go home and paint yourself green.

After about 10 minutes, we were distracted by two elderly women entering the cinema. They carried huge boxes of popcorn and had trouble walking in the dark. They made their way down the aisle, peering along each row, stood for several minutes in the centre, then wandered out again. Perhaps they had wandered into the wrong cinema. Or maybe the cinema is haunted and they were the ghosts from a previous audience.

We then got back to the film. Really, the overwhelming impression was pretty, funny, with lots of music. I enjoyed it. Even the spaceships looked like massive sewing machines (not that I enjoy sewing, but it made a change from the normal flying saucer). There was lots of killing, but somehow it’s okay when accompanied by 50’s music.

There were a few weird storylines, which felt like they were copied from other sources, and not really developed. But to be honest, the story didn’t matter. It was a jolly sort of film, perfect for watching on a rainy bank holiday Monday.

Of course, the day after Bank Holiday was warm and sunny. I tried to brush the dog, who’s moulting like crazy. She hates it, and will stand still for about 2 seconds before running off. All the cats come to watch – I’m sure they’re laughing at me.

I also decided to plant some seeds. I like planting seeds, and am quite good at watering them and watching the seedlings grow. Then I tend to lose interest, so they don’t always make it into the garden. I’ve planted a few pots and trays and put them on the patio – well defended against the cats, who’d enjoy digging them up.

 

Now, here’s a secret, so don’t tell anyone. Next to our house is a field, which is sometimes used for crops and sometimes has animals. The farmer has recently plowed it, added lots of lime, and drilled it (which I think means he has planted seeds). Last year he grew sweetcorn. I had some seeds of my own – some sunflower seeds – so, when I was walking the dog, I planted three of them in the corner of the field. Not sure if this is allowed.

But if they grow, they will look really good, three sunflowers smiling at everyone in the lane as they drive past. Hopefully they will grow taller than the crop, so everyone will see them. I will let you know.

The ducklings have grown as big as their mother. They still have some fluff, but are growing straggly feathers now. When the feathers have grown enough for them to be able to fly, I’ll let them back on the pond. There are another couple of nests around the pond. No idea if the eggs are alive, or if the ducklings will survive should they hatch. Probably depends on whether I manage to catch them or not.

Have a good week.

Anne x

xxx

I’ve just been sent a copy of the local paper, which features JOANNA again. The journalists in town have been very kind, my books have been mentioned several times now. I still hate seeing my photo in the newspaper, but I think it’s one of the downsides to being an author. In this one, I am desperately trying to stop the poster behind me from falling down!

The Dead Bag

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What do you keep in your shed? Bikes? Old chairs you will mend one day? Flower pots? I keep a Dead Bag in my shed – which my children find deeply disturbing. I should clarify, before you phone the serious crime office, it does not contain body parts. Well, not human ones anyway. You see, if you live in a town, you probably have a romantic image of springtime in the country as being full of new life, beautiful flowers, chicks, blossom. Which it is. But it’s also full of death, much of which I have to clear up. And there’s lots of it, so it’s easier to keep a bag in the shed, which I hygienically dispose of at regular intervals, than to triple bag every single corpse that appears.

As I say, lots of dead things. There are the bodies that have been killed by predators. The Springtime is when foxes go a bit bananas looking for mates, so they cast caution to the wind and will even run through gardens which have a big dog living there. Which results in a quick massacre of any ducks before said dog arrives and chases them off. Then there are the cats, who leave regular dismembered rats and mice and baby birds for me to clear up. And because it’s Spring, lots of baby birds are hatching, which the crows and magpies catch and carry off, but sometimes drop mid flight, so I have to clear up those.

Baby birds themselves are pretty fragile. Ducklings frequently die for no apparent reason soon after hatching, or die mid hatch. Plus there are the eggs that never get as far as the hatching stage, so are abandoned in the nest with a dead duck inside. All of which go into my Dead Bag. So you see, it’s not such a bad idea to have one, as long as it gets emptied regularly (otherwise it stinks. I know what death smells like – sure to be useful at some stage in a novel.) Worth remembering before you buy that country cottage or go to live on a farm; new life also tends to entail some gore or death. (There is a sermon here, but I’ll let you work it out for yourself.)

I have to admit, I have felt pretty near to death myself this week. I’ve had a nasty cold – aren’t they just the worse? You know it’s nothing serious, but everything aches, your nose won’t stop running, sneezing makes you dizzy and you feel wretched. Even my teeth itched, so I wanted to chew my gums. Most unpleasant. I decided to give myself an easy day and stay in the warm and watch Netflix all afternoon. I scanned the options and decided to watch ‘Survivors’, as I’d missed it when it was shown on telly and it looked interesting. Bad choice. It began with scenes of everyone in England catching flu and then dying. I began to fear my Dead Bag wouldn’t be big enough! You’ll be pleased to know I am recovering nicely, but I’ll let you know if things deteriorate.

To be honest, I can’t really complain, because Husband has been a huge help. I asked him to buy some tissues and he came home with both a box of tissues and lots of information. I now know the exact size and price of each individual tissue in every box sold in Morrisons (I know you’re dying for this information, but I’m saving it for another blog. In another life.) He also cooked dinner. This involved removing pies from the freezer, reading the instructions and placing them in the oven. It also involved a complicated time-plan, compiled on the computer using an Excel spreadsheet. Impressive – why have I never thought of doing this myself each day?

Have a good week.

Anne x

xxx

Thank you for reading.

If you enjoyed this, why not sign up to follow my blog?
anneethompson.com

Bible Blog

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I’ve decided to read through the Bible. I have, since childhood, read various parts of the Bible many times, but I have never read through it, beginning to end. So I thought it was time that I did. I don’t have ‘a system’ – I’m not that sort of person. I’m just going to read, in order, from beginning to end, as time/enthusiasm allows.

I will try to post each Sunday a short update about how I’m getting on. Partly to motivate myself, and partly because you might be interested. (If you’re not, you can just skip the blogs headed Bible Blog each week – I will still continue to post my newsy, family, travel blogs every Monday.) I’ll be honest about what I read and think, I won’t just regurgitate churchy views.

April 30th

I started at the beginning (which is actually, NOT a good place to start if reading the Bible for the first time! Better to begin in the New Testament, with Mark’s book.) Here are my thoughts/ramblings thus far:

There are two different stories about creation. I have studied these before, when teaching RS, so could really write a whole blog on them alone. However, my only comment here is I think it’s important to remember what question they are answering – they are not explaining HOW God made the world, they are explaining WHO and WHY. I think they are pictures, illustrating ideas, clearly showing that God was the creator. They were told at a time when there were lots of stories from the Babylonians, about dragons using things to create the world, so the point about God creating it from nothing, using just his word, is important. Personally, I don’t think it’s meant to be taken literally. Things like plants being created before light just seem too illogical.

Having said that, the first bit of Genesis is still weird. It is full of pictures and giants and strangeness. It is, on first glance, every bit as unbelievable as the myths that other cultures and religions have about how the world began. I think to understand it properly, you need to do further reading. One excellent book (I think) is Creation or Evolution, do we have to choose?

After creation comes the flood. Most old cultures have a flood story, which is interesting – who knows, perhaps it really did happen. Certainly the instructions for building the ark (about the size of a multi-storey carpark) are detailed, if not especially interesting. After the flood, there’s a story about Noah getting drunk and his son having sex with him (they didn’t cover that little gem in Sunday School when I was a kid!)

There are many lists of genealogies. No idea why, they don’t make for an interesting read. However, recently I watched “The Good Lie”, about children being rescued in Sudan. One clip showed the children reciting all their ancestors. Perhaps in some cultures it’s important.

Next are the stories about Abram, Lot, Isaac. These seem more historically factual, they read like real events about actual people. One part that interested me was when Abraham plants a tamarisk tree. I did some research into what this was. It’s a tree that’s very unusual because it puts down very deep roots, and so can reach deep water tables. It uses a lot of water, so starves the surrounding soil of moisture, so other plants cannot grow near it. It also is able to take up salt, which it expels as a salty layer on its leaves. When they fall, this makes the soil salty, which again means no other plants can grow near it. So, it is a lonely tree, very different to other plants and not able to mix with them. It was introduced to the western states of America, where it flourished and is now seen as a pest, but hard to kill due to its deep roots. Now, Abraham is seen as ‘the father of the Jews’. It seems to me that the tamarisk tree makes a good metaphor for how the world views the Jewish race.

Another story I found interesting was the one where Abraham sends his servant to find a wife for his son. He feels that he wants his son to marry from his own people, so makes a plan. However, he also has a backup plan, he tells the servant to come home without a woman if she isn’t willing to go with him. So, he was doing what he thought God wanted, but if he was wrong, he had made a decision about what to do instead. He hoped he was right, that he was following God’s plan, but he didn’t assume it. Of course, when the servant did find the wife, Rebekah, it all proved to be what God wanted. But I found it interesting that Abraham didn’t know that for sure, he was just doing his best, doing what he thought was right. Which sometimes, is all that we can do.

xxx

Thanks for reading. I’ll let you know how I get on in the next week.

If you’re interested, why not sign up to follow my blog?
anneethompson.com

xxx

Ducklings and Mothers…

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Hello, did you have a good week? I hope so. I thought I’d give you a quick update on life in my crazy bit of the world.

First, ducklings. Now, it doesn’t matter how often I tell myself that I shouldn’t interfere, if I see a mother behaving badly, I just can’t stop myself. And some ducks are truly terrible mothers (so are some humans, actually, but that’s another story). At the moment, I have a couple of duck families living in the aviary. The mother with the first clutch is proving to be a good mother – she has 5 ducklings, all healthy, and stays with them at all times. She is loose in the aviary, and finds somewhere sheltered to settle with them at night or on cold days, keeping them warm.

Then there is the other mother. The other mother managed to hatch 2 ducklings : one yellow, one black. She was sitting on a whole heap of different eggs; I’m not sure if any were actually hers, but none of the other ducks were interested, so I guess she should take some credit for trying. Now, however, she is awful. She does not like being in a cage, and is on a mission to escape back to the pond. Which means she is completely ignoring her ducklings, even to the point of stepping on them if they get in her way. I did try letting her have the run of the aviary, but that didn’t work at all. She flew onto a log, where the ducklings couldn’t reach her and sat there, hissing at the other mother. The yellow duckling decided it would join the other family, even though they’re all much bigger, so just followed them around and snuggled under their mother when it was cold. The black duckling wanted to stay with its own mum. Whenever I went to check, it was running round after her, or sitting as near to her as it could when she was up high. Poor little thing. We had one really cold damp day, and it stood shivering all alone. I didn’t rate its chances. So I shut negligent mother duck into the dog cage, with hay, water and food. She’s extremely angry. But the ducklings fit through the bars, so when they’re cold, they can go under her and she can’t escape. (I am not sure of the morality of this – or if sometimes we ought to do this with human mothers – but it did save the life of the ducklings.)

I have also tried to be a good mother this week. The boys are back in town. My fridge is empty. My house is full of music, and laughter, and strong political views, and extremely long discussions about physics. Some of those things are excellent.

Son 1 had an interview (he wants to do marketing in the non-profit sector, which is not easy to get into). It was an online interview, so was filmed. Obviously, for marketing, it’s important to stand out. So I figured he should do the interview, completely seriously, but with a cockerel in the room. He could ignore it, and concentrate on the interviewers questions, but in the background, would be a cockerel, flying around, and crowing. Definitely would make him memorable. He wasn’t keen though. Shame, my children never seem to take my advice these days…

Other son has decided to apply for a Masters, so needs to find his certificates. Always a fun game. We do have a ‘system’ (I am married to an accountant, remember?) We keep all the education certificates in a section of the filing cabinet, where they’ll be safe. Except, sometimes people forget to put them in there. I do remember one child searching desperately prior to applying to uni, and all he could find was his GCSE Spoken English and 900 of his brother’s music certificates. It was not a stress free event.

I did hear of a job opportunity this week. It involved digging holes. A chap in the area runs his own business, and has more work than he can cope with, so is looking for help with digging holes. He will then plant trees. (Under the trees will be dead bodies, but we can concentrate on the ‘holes for trees’ aspect). None of my family were interested. Shame – it would’ve been kinda cool to have a grave-digger in the family.

At the time of writing this, I have just spent a ridiculous amount of money on a haircut. I was rather pleased with it. Both boys inform me it looks no different at all. Am hoping my daughter will be more encouraging – if not, I shall ask my mother. My mother will tell me it looks lovely whatever it looks like. Now she’s a good mother….

xxx

Thank you for reading.

I have been thinking about mothers a lot lately – not just due to the ducks. My latest book, Joanna, examines how a mother feels when her child ‘goes wrong’. An easy read novel, it’s available from bookshops and Amazon. The link is below. It’s always nice when you write a book to receive feedback – these are some of the comments people have made:

“I couldn’t stop reading it once I’d started”

“Anyone who enjoyed ‘The Girl on the Train’ is going to love this book!”

“I bought it for my friend but then I couldn’t stop reading. Please can I buy another 4 copies” (That might be my favourite comment so far!)

xxx

Understanding Stories

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How well do you know the stories in the Bible? I’m guessing that anyone who lives in the UK knows at least some of them. Which of these do you know?: Adam and Eve, Noah’s Ark, Joseph and his dreams, Moses and the Plagues, The Nativity, The Lost Sheep, The Prodigal Son.

As you know, I am rather keen on knowing what the Bible says, and have been reading it for most of my life. However, sometimes I read a commentary that shows how little I still know. This was true recently, when I was looking at the story of The Prodigal Son. I thought I’d let you know about the bits I have been getting wrong for the last 50 years.

Firstly, when you think of the story, where do you see it set? I have this image of a house surrounded by fields – so when the father runs to meet his returning son at the end, he is running down this long straight road. A bit like a farm on the American plains. This is so wrong! When the story was told, land owners, even wealthy ones, lived in small communities. They might send someone to sleep near the fields when the harvest was ready, but their home would be in a community. So, when we read this story, we need to be aware of all the friends and neighbours who would have been part of the story, even though they’re not specifically mentioned. (They weren’t mentioned, because everyone listening already knew this. If I write a story today, about a family eating roast beef, I don’t say that the food is served on a china plate, because anyone reading my story already knows that.)

So, what happens in this story? It begins with a man and two sons, and the younger one asks for his share of the inheritance, before his father has died. Now, in those days (actually, today it still holds true) this was in effect, telling his father, “I wish you were dead”. You would expect the father to be angry, to throw out his son and not give him anything. However, the father in the story doesn’t do this. He divides his money between both his sons. Which is interesting for two reasons. Firstly, in order for this to be legal, it would have to be done in a way that the community believed this was the father’s free choice – so he was protecting his son even though he’d been insulted. Secondly, the oldest son also took the money. He didn’t protest, tell his father he’d wait for his share. Nope, the money was divided between both of them. (Leaving the father in a very vulnerable position). The community would be angry at how the sons shamed the father.

Next, the youngest son leaves. This is where the community matters. In those days, it was very important to a community, that all wealth remained with Jews. If you sold property, you sold to Jews. If you spent money, you spent it with Jews. To lose money to non-Jews (Gentiles) was disgraceful. They actually had a ceremony, called the kezazah ceremony where a community would smash a pot filled with burnt corn and nuts in front of the individual, to show he was cut off from the community. We know that the youngest son lost his money amongst Gentiles, because he is later employed as a pig farmer (Jews don’t eat pork). He is working because the only way he can return to his community is if he manages to repay the money he lost. But we read that no one ‘gave him anything’ – so he’s not managing to earn money to cover his loss.

So, the son is in a pickle. He has lost his money to Gentiles, and he’s hungry and poor. What to do? Now, here comes an interesting bit. The story says he says to himself, ‘I will go back to my father and say, “I have sinned against heaven and before you”’. He then plans to ask his father for employment (so he can pay back what he owes, and no longer be in disgrace). He has a plan. Now, I always thought that these words meant that the son was sorry, and was returning to his father to ask for forgiveness. But no, that’s wrong.

This story was told by Jesus to the pharisees, who were annoyed because Jesus was eating with sinners. Pharisees would know the old testament extremely well (better than I do). So, when they heard the words, “I have sinned before heaven and before you”, they would recognise them at once. As you, if you enjoy old films, might recognise “I go to the hills for the sound of music”, or if you read, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times”. You see, the words spoken by the son are a direct quote from the story of Moses and Pharaoh and the plagues. They are the words that Pharaoh says when he wants the plagues to stop. Was Pharaoh sorry? Did he accept that Moses was right? No! He just wanted the problem to end. It was the same with the son. He had his plan all clear in his mind. He would go home, manipulate his father into letting him work for him, earn enough money to pay back what he’d lost, then his problem would be over, the community would accept him back.

However, that’s not how it turned out. Before he even reached the community, his father saw him and came running. He ran because he wanted to show the community that he accepted his son, that there was no need for the kezazah ceremony. Men in those days did not run. Mothers did, not fathers. The father is again breaking the mould, doing what is necessary, to save his son. When they meet, the son starts on his prepared speech – but he doesn’t finish it. He is overwhelmed by his father’s love and forgiveness. He stops and simply accepts what the father is offering.

Then we have the feast. I always thought there was a party to welcome the son home, which to my mind seemed a bit unfair, because he didn’t deserve one. But the friends came to the feast to honour the father, not the son. Another interesting twist is this, when the feast happens, the father (good man) is eating with the son (bad man). Which is exactly what those listening to the story had accused Jesus of doing.

Now we return to the older son, the one who had been the silent benefactor of his brother’s abuse of the father. He is outside, and hears the party, and asks what it’s for. The story is clear here, he is not angry because his brother has returned, he is angry because his father has accepted him back. He is angry and jealous and refuses to go inside. In those days, that would be another huge insult to the father. The father could be expected to be angry, to cast him out. (It would be like someone at a wedding standing up and criticising, in public, the parents of the bride. Not done.) Instead, the father again risks his own humiliation and leaves his guests and goes to find his son. He listens to his grievances and reminds him that he has all he wants. It is important to remember here, the banquet is for the father – to celebrate what he has done for the son – NOT to celebrate the wayward son. If the older son wants to truly be unified with his father, he must also accept his brother. Which is, I think, the point that Jesus was making to the pharisees. If they wanted to be part of God’s work, the shepherds of his flock, then they must accept everyone who God accepts; and God accepts sinners.

So, what is the point of this story for us? It tells us what it means to be reunited with God (who is represented by the father in the story). It tells us that there is no scheme that we might have that makes us good enough, all we can do is accept the amazing generosity of God. It tells us that ‘being a Christian’ is not a belief system, is not a list of rules, is not a hereditary condition. It simply means we have chosen to accept what God has done, we choose to accept being taken back. Which ties in very well with everything that we celebrate and remember at Easter. So I hope you had a great time.

Thank you for reading.

I learned all this through reading “Jacob and the Prodigal” by Kenneth E Bailey. Great book!

Re-posted for Easter: A Sword Pierced Heart

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I watched my son die today. My beautiful boy, beaten, battered and left to die. And my heart broke. I held my cloak close and I remembered the weight of him as a babe, like a boulder on my hip, wriggling to be free, to run and jump and climb. Those legs will run no more. Those limbs – I was so proud when they grew. I remember when he grew as tall as me, then taller even than Joseph. I remember watching him, stretched out as he ate, those long limbs seemed to go on forever. “I grew him,” I used to think with pride. Those limbs will not sprawl relaxed in my home ever again.

I watched his hands, the hands that used to pat me cheekily on the head when he’d grown tall. Those strong hands which laboured with wood, which helped me carry heavy loads, which lifted young children playfully. They are no longer strong. I saw them bang nails through the flesh, felt that I heard the sound of bone shattering over the thump of the hammer, heard his ragged breath as they forced the cross upright. And I wondered if I too might die. But I watched. I am his mother and I would not leave him alone.

When they tried to take me home, when they told me to shield my eyes, avert my gaze, I did not. For he was my son. I would never leave him alone, not at such an anguished hour of need. Others watched. Some women were there, terrified and hanging back. Not me, I am his mother. I stood with John, where he could see me. What could they do to me that was worse than this?

Others watched who hated him. They mocked and spat and called abuse. It could not hurt him now, I thought, let them shout. “He trusts in God,” they called, “Let God save him now,” and they laughed, even as he died they laughed. Yet even God deserted him by the end and that was hardest to bear. He called out with a loud shout, asking why God had turned from him.
“My God,” he called in anguish, “why have you forsaken me?”
But I was there. I did not leave. I saw them crucify him, naked upon a cross. No mother wants to see her grown son naked, but still I did not look away. I was there at the beginning, I would stay with him until the end.

The soldiers took his clothes, for fabric is costly and even that of a criminal should not go to waste. Most they tore and shared between them, but not his tunic. They cast lots for that, not wanting to spoil something precious. Yet my son was precious and they destroyed him.

It began last night. They woke me from my sleep and warned me there was trouble. He had been arrested, taken from a meal with his friends and questioned by the temple authorities. They feared the invaders, so he was then referred to a court of Godless law, a place that feared no God. They told me that he was scourged, beaten with whips that removed chunks of flesh as they struck. He was mocked and abused, then brought to this place.

I came, stumbling through streets full of people, full of noise and smells and fear and hatred. I came to this place, this Godforsaken hill beyond the city wall and I saw my son, my boy, diminished, shrunken somehow. I saw that what they had told me was true, smelt the repugnant stink of excrement mingle with the metallic stench of blood. I heard the shouts of abuse, the curses of the guards, the screams from the prisoners, the wails from friends. And him, like an oasis of calm amidst the turmoil, suffering but at peace.
And he saw me. Those dark eyes that as a baby had watched me intently when he fed. Those eyes that twinkled merrily when he teased me and became serious when he wanted to explain something important. Those eyes, red rimmed with exhaustion now, turned to me. Even hanging there, with parched mouth and dried lips, he spoke to me. His voice was hoarse, for he had refused the wine they offered, but I heard him well. A mother knows her child’s voice. I stood with John and my son told me that this was to be my son now and he was to care for me as a mother. Even in his torment he cared for me, fulfilled his duty as my son. Still I would not leave.

Then it ended. The sky had turned as black as my world and he drew his last breath. It was finished.
Those who had mocked became silent, some cried, some beat their breasts in despair. The blackness of the sky frightened them and many fled, wondering at what they had done.
Then I left, I let them lead me away. My soul was broken and my heart beat even though I bid it stop. My boy was gone, my firstborn, special baby, was no more. I carried that knowledge like a rock within me, I would have rather died in his place. How can I live, continue with my life knowing he is gone? There would be no more sunshine or laughter, nothing matters now. The core of me was gone. I could not even cry.

Afterwards, I could not rest and I heard strange stories. They said the soldiers pierced his side, to check there was no life in him. His blood had separated so they took him down, a solid corpse that had no life.
A man came and took the body, they said they followed and knew where he lay, in a tomb that was guarded. They told me of strange things, of the temple curtain torn in two, of dead men walking and boulders breaking open. I do not know. I only know my boy is gone. That is all that matters.
It should not have been like this. It was so recently that people praised his name, sang and danced before him, treated him like a king. It should not have ended like this.

And yet, I recall a song, it comes persistently to mind, sung often in the synagogue. It speaks of one forsaken by God in his time of need, scorned by many. He belonged to God from before he was born, then suffered at the hands of many. They sung of bones poured out like water, a heart of melted wax, that is how my boy would have felt. They sung of hands and feet pierced like his and enemies gloating over him. They sang of lots being cast for clothing and of God’s ultimate victory. They sung of remembering him for ever, not just now but families of every nation, even those presently unborn. For he has done it.
Is this my son’s song? Were the words written for him? He spoke of his death often, he tried to warn me that he would die. But not like this, not before my own time has come. No mother should bury her child, it goes against what is natural and right. Though, he showed no fear, he knew what his end would be. And he told me there was more.

As I turn now to sleep, I wonder at his words. Will he truly return somehow and will I know?

Has he finished what he was sent to do?

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If Mary was a young teenager when she learned she was pregnant (which would fit with the age girl’s became betrothed in those days) then when Jesus died aged thirty-three, she would have been about forty-seven. How does a woman of that age cope with the things she was forced to witness and how much would she have understood at the time? I am about her age, I have sons, contemplating their dying is too horrible for words. I am sure she loved her boy as much as we love ours.

Crucifixion was a ghastly way to die. We learn in the Bible that Jesus, who never sinned, who never did anything wrong, died to save the world. What does that mean? You can learn more at:https://anneethompson.com/how-to/378-2/

However, many people were crucified, some probably unjustly accused. So is it the death that was important or was it that God became separate? I think that this is the key issue here, the part of Jesus that was God left him. That was more terrible than crucifixion. That is what each of us deserves and what we do not have to suffer if we choose to come to God.
If we want to know God, we can, even if that means changing our minds. You may not believe in God but God believes in you.

The song which Mary recalled in the story was Psalm 22. It has some striking similarities to the account of Jesus’ crucifixion. It was written about one thousand years before the event. (wow)
It begins: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
It finishes: “…..future generations will be told about the Lord. They will proclaim his righteousness to a people yet unborn- for he has done it.”

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Thank you for reading.

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anneethompson.com

The British Library – Women and Literature

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I’ve never been to the current British Library before – have you? I did go, many years ago, when it was part of the British Museum. Now it’s housed in a building (which I think is rather ugly) next door to St Pancreas Hotel (which I think is rather beautiful). Always a shame when a building is not how we imagine.

There are statues and sculptures in various places. Lots were donated when the current building was built. I expect that must be a minefield of diplomacy – where to place the extremely ugly statue that a wealthy benefactor has donated? Perhaps that’s why some are more visible than others. You don’t want to be the one in the staff toilets… Anyway, I have photographed a few, but the quality is bad due to my extremely old phone (which could be in a museum itself).

I was meeting a group of friends for a lecture about how the place of women in society can be seen in contemporary literature. ‘Contemporary’ means the last few hundred years, so it was interesting. I met the rest of the group in the foyer. There’s a bench there, in the shape of a book (like the ‘book benches’ that popped up around London in 2014). This one was metallic. When I walked round to take a photo in better light, I noticed it was attached to a ball and chain. Apparently the chain reminds people that in the past, books in libraries were chained (I’m guessing so they weren’t stolen). The ball represents the permanency of ideas – that once you have read a book, it becomes part of you, you can never ‘unread’ it.

The books and pamphlets we were shown seemed to fit into three types:

There were those that accepted the role assigned to women in the past, the domestic science books, the recipe books, the ones advising women married to colonial workers in India how to manage their staff. There were some lovely cookery books, the older ones had fairly random capital letters, because they had been printed before their usage was standardised. I was allowed to photograph pre-copyright books, so I hope you can see this one. They wrote ’s’ as ‘f’. Until 1845, they didn’t make a list of ingredients in recipes, as they weren’t expected to be followed like they are today – they were for women to read and learn.

Then there were the books protesting the roles designated to women. The literature by the suffragettes, the books ridiculing the sexist books by men, the play refuting that women should be degraded. There was a lot of this defensive literature, encouraging women to rebel and defend themselves. Some of it was about the right to control fertility – and one had a photograph of a poor woman who had eleven children, all alive. She looked tired.

Finally, there were the books, written by women, that simply broke the mould. These were brilliant. The Woman and the Car by Dorothy Levitt (1902) was one of these. She was the first British female racing driver. Her photograph showed a wealthy, attractive woman, and her book showed she would have been lots of fun. We weren’t allowed to touch the books, which was a shame, as I would’ve loved to read this one. It was open on a page that began: “If you are going to drive alone in the highways and byways it might be advisable to carry a small revolver”. There was a picture, showing a secret drawer under her seat, where the revolver could be hidden. She also wrote, “If you are driving alone, a dog is great company.” It was thanks to Dorothy that cars now have rear-view mirrors, as she advised women drivers to keep a hand mirror next to them, so they could see what was behind them without having to turn round.

It was an interesting lecture, followed by interesting chat. We were all women, so we (of course) started to discuss how women are treated in society today. In many ways, we are now considered to be equal with men. Yet Joanna Rowling was still advised to use her initials rather than her name when publishing Harry Potter, because some men/boys do not read books by women. There are still echoes of sexism in modern society – and of course, in some cultures, not much has changed and women are still basically ‘owned’, with very few rights. However, someone mentioned an art exhibition, which only exhibited women’s work. For me, this is too much. I am a woman, but I would want my work exhibited because it was good enough, not because I was woman. I know that companies now must consider the balance of their employees. Again, I would want to be employed because I was the best candidate, not because I was a woman, or foreign, or a certain religion. I’m not sure society has the balance quite right yet….

xxx

Thank you for reading.

anneethompson.com