A Governmental Change of Heart and Direction

In my last ‘Blog’ I told of a study carried out at some, now unknown, University to determine the obvious. As many of these studies tend to do.

I wanted, when I was younger, to get a grant from the UK Government to find out if fish fart. Something, it seems, they were loath to give me. Apparently there is no useful end result from it although, to be honest, it would do me a power of good by setting my mind at rest about the odd smells from the front room where my fish tank was located.

Some of these studies are useful. There is no doubt that some are invaluable. They lead to a better life and, in some cases, life itself for some person that might otherwise have gone without.

Did you know, for example, that if you see a vehicle approaching with its headlights on—in daylight or at night, then you would be unable to make out a distinct outline? Obvious? Yes, of course. What you possibly do not realise is that, according to a study, you will be unable to determine, even approximately, its speed as it approaches you.

This is a very important fact if you are a motorcyclist or a driver at a junction observing the approach of a motorcycle with its headlight on.

In a similar fashion, another study showed that young children under the age of twelve (12) are unable, through lack of experience, to judge the speed of oncoming traffic with or without the headlights on. This will tell you that you should never send a child under twelve to the shops to buy your cocai... cigarettes.

Around thirty years ago the German Government understood, from reports and studies, that petrol engines were killing the environment.

You may, or may not, know that the German Government is really ‘Green’. Putting salt on the roads in winter is punishable by death; hitting a tree in your brand new Citroen makes you liable to a heavy fine even if your Citroen is a write-off and the insurance company won’t pay up because you should not have been driving a French car on ice.

I digress.

As a result of this advice, the Germans put a levy on petrol but discounted diesel fuel prices. They also gave generous discounts to those purchasing German diesel cars. This is in spite of the fact, as everyone knows, that the French Company, Peugeot, make the best diesel engines in the World. Of course, their cars are not so great but the engines are marvellous.

I digress again. Sorry.

So the German people rose up as one, sold their petrol-engined cars and bought diesels.

Then, another study from elsewhere in Germany discovered that diesel emissions cause cancer. ‘Krebs’ in the vernacular.

Oh, dear.

The German people rose up as one and sold off their diesel cars for which the discounts and subsidies had now disappeared in order to buy petrol-engined cars.

There was now a glut of diesel cars in the German second-hand showrooms. Most of which the dealers despaired of ever getting rid of.

Enter—moi!

Looking for a replacement for a decrepit Opel Rekord 2.0 Litre fastback I chanced upon a rather nice looking Mercedes 300D saloon. It was, in truth, covered in leaves, bird droppings and stuff but, otherwise, it was pretty sound.

I took it to the local Mercedes dealer in Duisberg to get a review of it and, apart from a few very minor things, he pronounced it to be in good condition.

My bank manager in UK said, “How much? Get me one!” as he deposited the cash in my account.

It was a delight to drive. It ‘boomed’ a little inside at ninety miles per hour but otherwise it was wonderful.

And now, dear hearts, if you go back two ‘Blogs’ you will see reference to this Mercedes 300D saloon in the great rescue adventure.

Now you know how it came about that I was the proud possessor of such a great machine.

Until I rolled it seven times at Pitlochry in Scotland.

But that, my lovelies, is another story.

Birds of a Feather

At the back of my mind, which is an unpleasant place to be it must be said, is a vague memory of a study carried out at a University about physical beauty.

The details of the study as well as the way it was carried out remain blurred in the depths of the brain cells. The brain, at my age, possibly fails to function as accurately as one would hope.

We are aware that memory is a strange phenomenon. We remember what we want to remember and that recollection is coloured, shaded and shaped by what we expected to remember as well as the context in which it was placed.

Accurate? No. In a previous ‘Blog’ I did mention that we all tell lies, not because we want to or even because we benefit in some way but because we cannot help it.

Our memory lies to us so we continue that lie to other people. We do it unconsciously and innocently.

So it is that my memory of this study is, at best, shaky. However (this is a posh ‘but’!), I remember, or think I do, the results.

What they came up with in the end is the same thing that my Granny would have told them that ‘like’ goes with ‘like’.

There is a recollection of boys and girls in their late teens and early twenties being scooped up from the University grounds, dressed in baggy clothes and having a head scarf put over their hair. All the clothes and scarves were grey. Then, by some (forgotten) means, they teamed up in pairs—one boy with one girl. Each of them wore a number but there were no other forms of identification to ensure anonymity.

The process was then repeated but now they wore fairly tight fitting clothes and no headscarf.

In each case the numbers were recorded.

Prior to this exercise the youngsters were assessed in terms of physical beauty; they were given a rating based on that assessment but this was unknown to the participants, of course.

The result was fairly uniform. The students who had a low assessment of their physical beauty paired up with a member of the opposite sex with a similar rating and the ‘Alpha’ male and female would tend to pair up.

So, as Granny said, ‘like’ will find ‘like’. It is unusual to find dissimilarities between male and female couples. Those that we perceive as ‘beautiful’ will almost always pair with another ‘beautiful’ person.

There are, not unnaturally, exceptions to this. I am greatly fortunate in that I have a lovely wife to look at but, sadly for her, she only has me!

What about Hugh Hefner? He can hardly be regarded as devilishly handsome and physically robust and yet his wife, who at twenty-six is sixty years his junior, can be considered quite attractive. She also, it turns out, has a degree in psychology. Perhaps she knows something that we do not.

It would appear that this deviation from the mean could be affected by other factors. Wealth would appear to be the main one—or opportunity to gain wealth, perhaps.

In my last ‘Blog’ I spoke of Dirk and his wife. He was a lowly Fitter in the Belgian Air Force while his wife was an actress; she was unutterably lovely, he was... er... not.

Where does that fit in the overall plane of things?

Look around you. Observe your friends and their families and note the similarities.

Then have a look at their pets...

A Satisfying Day – in the End

It was an ordinary afternoon. A typical day in the normally boring routine of a military airfield.

Then.

An F-16 landed. It was from a Belgian Air Force base called Beauvechain. This place is where the redoubtable Adjutant Premiere (Warrant Officer First Class) Henri Heroufosse works; perhaps more about dear Henri at another time.

The F-16 was not feeling very well. We had nobody in our group who was able to sign for a repair on it although there were several of us who could give a valid opinion on what ailed it.

The Belgian Air Force sent an expert. Dirk arrived in a Magistere aircraft flown by a Walloon pilot.

Now, just to make this clear; Belgian is divided by two groups of people. There are the French speaking people who, they believe, are naturally superior and then there are the ‘underclass’ called the Flemish people who speak a form of Dutch. There are, in many places, huge posters up advocating ‘Seperatisme’.

Racism is not just a question of colour, as there are those who will have you believe. It is disgusting where, and how, ever it happens.

The F-16 is a single seat fighter aircraft—or this one was. We watched, at this point somewhat fascinated, as the Magistere taxied out and took off and then focussed our attention on the person that had climbed out of it. ‘Was there,’ we asked, ‘anything he needed?’

He assured us that he had everything in his tool box so we satisfied ourselves with watching.

Eventually, task completed, he stood back while the pilot got in, we did the start drill and the aircraft disappeared.

At this point I asked the fellow about his return arrangements. How was he supposed to get back to Beauvechain?

He shrugged and told me that the instruction had been to get in the Magistere, come to us, fix the F-16. There was no more added to that.

I telephoned the Belgian Air Force at Beauvechain. They had no idea.

I telephoned the Belgian Air Force HQ in Waterloo. They had no idea. Perhaps I could call again tomorrow when they would ‘sort something out’.

Tomorrow, eh?

He and I went up to the Sergeant’s mess since our ‘guest’ was a Senior Non-Commissioned Officer (SNCO). They told me that there was no reciprocal agreement between them and the BAF (Belgian Air Force) so there was nothing could be done. Perhaps he could find a hotel overnight?

At this point I explained to them that he was wearing coveralls, he is greasy and carrying a tool box. He has no cash, no identification—nothing. Furthermore, his wife is heavily pregnant and he is concerned for her well-being.

Nothing. Unmoved. After more remonstration, part of which involved me explaining that this was one of the reasons I did not use the Sergeant’s Mess because they were all a**holes in there, we departed for the Motor Transport section.

“I’m sorry, we can’t help you,” the Sergeant said.

I emphasised the importance of getting him home because his wife...

Nothing. No entreaty. No problem was too small that it couldn’t be brushed aside or ignored.

We managed to get to Station Headquarters (SHQ – known to all and sundry as ‘Handbrake House’) before they shut for the day.

“Could you give him a travel warrant, he needs to get home?”

“Sorry. Not possible.”

“What is possible?”

“Nothing. Not our problem.”

I saw, in his office, the Officer in Charge of SHQ. A Squadron Leader.

“You can’t go in there,” some Corporal told me. How close was he to death at that point he will never know. I went ‘in there’.

After explaining the situation to the Officer who, at least, gave ear and sympathy to the fellow’s plight, I had a flash of inspiration.

“Sir, I am embarrassed and ashamed at the reaction of Her Majesty’s Royal Air Force to one of our allies within the Structure of NATO. I am disheartened by the negative response at his plight and the ‘jobs worth’ attitude of my colleagues. Enough of this nonsense. This man stands before you with nothing. Nothing. He is a stranger stranded on a foreign military base, he knows nobody here and those nobodies are not willing to help. This is disgraceful. One wonders how we should feel if we were in his shoes. One wonders how the Americans would have dealt with it, for example. Why has it become such an issue? To hell with this crap. I will drive him home myself.”

“Good plan, Chief,” he said, “I will sign any claim you care to bring for travel expenses. It is quite far.”

“It is quite far for both of us. Possibly it is even farther for him—to walk.”

My Boss was notified that I was going; we got into my Mercedes 300D Left Hand Drive (that I bought very cheaply courtesy of an ‘about turn’ by the German Government) and set off for Belgium.

The intention was that I should drop him off at his house, which was only a couple of hours away, and then return home.

The best laid plans, as they say, ‘gang aft agley’!

The man was called Dirk. Dirk Schmet von Bever. A lovely fellow and great company on the trip into Belgium.

At the house his wife was so pleased to see him. She had received a message from Beauvechain telling her that they had no clue when he would be able to return.

His little girl, Marijke, rushed to me with a book shouting, “HonselGretel, Kek, Kek.”

I had no idea what she meant but a glance at the book quickly resolved her words into ‘Hansel and Gretel’. She was telling me to ‘look, look’.

Mrs. Dirk, her name eludes me for the moment, went to get changed. It seems that they also had a plan that involved something called ‘mosselsuppe’.

I also had a sneaky feeling that I had seen her before. Something vaguely familiar about her that I could not place. She was, as Dirk had described, extremely pregnant. Her appearance was, in reality, that of a large beach ball with legs and a small superstructure. There was concern in my head about the safety of going out for fear that the baby might make an immediate appearance.

We went to a place that was flat. Fields and fields full of vegetables it seemed. In the middle of this expanse of nothingness was a square block of a house. At the bottom of the house was a restaurant that specialised in ‘mosselsuppe’.

We were presented with a vast bowl containing mussels in their shells, A large plate of salad and another large plate, each, of chips (potato fries). Once we had managed to shell the mussels there was soup at the bottom with the mussels, now naked, in it.

It was utterly delicious. So very, very good. I was stuffed.

When I dropped him and his family off at the house I said to him that I still had this feeling that I had seen his wife before.

“Oh, yes. You probably have,” he laughed, “She is an actress. She was in the ‘Fa’ commercials.”

‘Ding’! Le petit soleil flashed on in my head. There was an advert for shower gel on the Belgian network in which this rather well built young lady rinses off the suds in the shower from her... her... superstructure.

What do you say at that point? “I’m sorry, I didn’t recognise your wife with her clothes on,” springs to mind.

I think I just came out with a somewhat lame, “Oh!” and left.

Over twenty-six years later Dirk’s daughter will be over thirty. I hope she takes after his wife and not Dirk.

I understand he went to Curacao to work for ‘Sabena’ but the rest is lost in the mists of time.

So much trouble, so much to be ashamed of. So little help for a stranger who just wanted to go home. Was there no shame, no guilt in the minds of those who abandoned him? How hard would it have been to wait for half an hour to see if he needed a flight home?

Who sent him, without any identification or cash, to another country? What sort of pre-planning, forethought, went into that?

None.

The only thought was, “Rescue the F-16 and pilot.”

End of plan.

Dirk was, essentially, disposable.

After all this time I cannot remember Dirk’s face.

I remember his wife.

Parts of her.

In the shower...

Facing Death 2

How odd it is. Write a ‘Blog’ about death and few people will read it.

Are we really so terrified of death that we avert our eyes to the very mention of it?

We are, really, not afraid of death itself. Most of us will either believe in some better future or a complete non-existence.

No, the reality is that we fear the process of dying.

Some time ago there was a scientist on ‘Discovery Channel’ pontificating about different forms of execution; about how this would be excruciatingly painful but this would be, effectively painless.

I was curious as to how she would know this. Has she, perhaps, experienced these different forms of execution and so is able to explain the intricacies of it on a personal level?

Staggering.

We are told that, no matter how ‘painless’ or ‘rapid’ the termination of life is there will always be pain as the soul is torn from the body.

The atheists among us may now relax since they have no soul to be extracted.

One of the forms of execution that was described in detail was the Spanish garrotte. This was a screw that dislocated the spine at the neck, relatively slowly, one would think, so that the spinal column was disconnected.

I cringed at the thought of this.

The ‘Expert’ explained that this would be a relatively painless death.

Oh, yes? Really?

Bring back the guillotine!

Then there was the argument about whether Edison had a hand in the Electric Chair. An old discussion that will never be satisfactorily resolved. All this was, really, a marketing strategy between the Direct Current (DC) camp and the Alternating Current (AC) providers. I am told that some part of the US has DC provided to it even now. Perhaps that is where we get ‘Washington DC’!

No, really. I’m sorry. Bad joke in poor taste.

Thing is, about the Electric Chair, that it is supposed to be painless and merciful. Hmm. Well. You don’t see many pictures of executed people smiling after that sort of jolt.

It has been said, about the guillotine, that quite often people would be speaking after having their heads removed. Of course there would be no sound because they lacked sufficient lungpower to drive the vocal chords but, one would assume, someone skilled at lip-reading might have a clue as to what that final message might be.

“I can’t feel my fingers,” might be one such attempt at the last word. Or, perhaps, “Ouch, that smarts!”

Final thoughts:

Firstly, is there such a thing as a ‘pain free’ death? Probably not. Possibly exploding a pound, or two, of ‘Semtex’ plastique very close to your ear might not be quite so damaging to your hearing as it might be to your ability to draw another breath.

A second point that leaps to my mind is that we seem to be applying much thought and ingenuity to making an execution as painless as possible.

Why?

Think about this.

Your average murderer has not given his victim much of a choice and the odds are that the victim has passed away in agony and abject terror. Now we want the killer to go out nice and peacefully?

I think not. Does this make me evil? Possibly. But if the killer has sliced someone up the middle to terminate their existence the least we can do is return the favour.

Sadly, this punishment is not about the victim. Nobody really cares about victims, do they?

The third thing is this: do not wish for it. Ever.

“But I don’t.” I hear you say.

“Oh, but you do. All the time,” I reply.

I have listened to you. I have heard what you say and thought deeply about it.

Often you will say, “I’m bored. I wish the weekend would hurry up.” “I can’t wait for Sybil’s birthday party on Friday night.” “I’ll be glad when this job is over – my feet are killing me.”

You are wishing your life away. You are speeding towards an inevitable event.

Be happy NOW.

Enjoy your life while you still have it, it is far too valuable a commodity to be rushed or ignored.

Invasion

Air Vice Marshall Sir Arthur Darby stood and tapped the table lightly for attention.

This was an impromptu meeting called by the intelligence services of several countries and many of them had no idea of the purpose of the gathering.

Sir Arthur recognised this; he also recognised the need for urgency, “Ladies and Gentlemen. Might I have your attention for just a few moments?

“It is a rare moment when the heads of the military of the United Nations are called together under one roof.

“Yes, we are a large and disparate group but the time has come when the survival of Earth depends upon us putting our heads together and finding a solution to a problem of which we know almost nothing.”

There was a murmur around the table. Some of the sounds were of scoffing and others were more serious knowing, as many did, that Sir Arthur was a pragmatic man. If he categorically stated that a spade was a spade then there was no doubt that a spade was what the item in question certainly was.

“Please allow me, if you will, a little latitude here while I play you a tape.

“This tape was recorded only a few days ago at the Parkes Radio Telescope and the source confirmed two hours later from Sheshan, Shanghai.”

The Chinese delegate nodded assurance around the table.

“Would you wish to comment, General Chang Khong Sheu?” Sir Arthur invited the General to address the assembly.

General Chang half stood, smiled at everyone, and said only “Perhaps later. We have a little more information now,” he nodded and sat again.

Sir Arthur leaned over and pressed a button on the table in front of him.

Moments later a crackly voice speaking in precise Russian was heard over the speakers arranged around the room.

Several people at the meeting were shrugging and holding out their hands, clearly not understanding what was being said.

There was a widespread, and silent, ‘Oh!’ when the voice of an interpreter began speaking into their earphone translating the tape.

“People of Earth,” the tape quality was poor. The interpreters and the Russian-speaking people had to concentrate very hard.

“People of Earth. We have studied you very long and very hard. We have recorded and pored over your TV and Radio transmissions for several years. We recognise your disparity and your hungers.

“The end for you is near. We shall come and we shall conquer. You have no defence. You will crumble helplessly before us. Prepare. We are closer than you think.”

The tape ended.

Silence around the crowded room.

At last the representative from India, Rear Admiral Rajdeep Suvharoo, said, without standing, “This must be a hoax,” he looked directly at General Chang.

This time, General Chang stood up confidently. He looked down at his notes briefly and then spoke in clear, unaccented, English.

“Ladies and Gentlemen. Sheshan and Parkes have collaborated on this very closely. The astronomers in both these places have agreed that the signal comes from outer space. There is no hoax. This is not local traffic or some sort of transmission bleed from a local radio station.

“We are anticipating that they, whoever ‘they’ are, will transmit another message to us at some stage in the near future. At which time the observatory at Atacama, that they call ‘ALMA’, will also be monitoring the signal. They have been given the coordinates and have been placed at the disposal of the World’s defence forces.

“For those of you that are still cynical about this threat I should tell you that the Government of the People’s Republic of China takes it very seriously and has aligned itself with the United States and the EU in this matter.

“We also accede that Air Vice Marshall Sir Arthur Darby of the Royal Australian Air Force should take the Chair as Parkes Observatory was the first to detect and record the signal. I seek a second for that motion,” he sat down to a deeper silence.

General Tom Myers, USAF, stood, “As ranking officer here,” he looked around the room; nobody spoke, “I guess I should take over that post but I agree with General Chang that Sir Arthur should chair this defence meeting. He has the history of the thing.”

“Thank you, Tom. No doubt you and General Chang should deputise since we will, undoubtedly, need the technological might of the US and the knowledge and manpower of the Chinese forces,” Sir Arthur said quietly.

“Does anybody,” he continued, “have any ideas how to proceed?”

The silence was becoming oppressive.

“In that case, we should adjourn until we hear more. At present we have no information of how big the threat is or, indeed, what the threat itself is. The purpose of this meeting has been fulfilled in that you are now all aware of what has happened and that we shall, at some point in the future, need to put up some sort of united front.

This might be a good time to put our squabbles to one side and begin to focus on something bigger from outside.”

Time passed. Three weeks. Sir Arthur picked up the telephone. It was Jimmy Retter from Parkes. Sir Arthur sat up straight, listening intently.

“Does Sheshan have this? And ALMA? They do? You all say what?”

He put the ‘phone back down, thought for a moment, and then asked his PA to get General Myers on the ‘phone.

“Have you heard? From ALMA? Good. OK, I’ll start rousing the people this side if you get hold of NATO and your counterparts to the South. No, no need to meet--we can do this electronically, I’m sure. Yes. No worries.”

Sir Arthur flew up to Singapore where he met with Air Commodore Len Thomas, an old Rugby adversary from the New Zealand Air Force, and most of the Asian military leaders.

“General Chang. How nice to see you again. Sad circumstances, of course,” Air Commodore Thomas and General Chang exchanged pleasantries for a few moments before General Chang asked Sir Arthur why the Commonwealth Forces and NATO had chosen to appoint Air Force people to this threat when the thrust of the aggression would, almost certainly, be a ground war.

“Our Armies can’t look up, General,” Sir Arthur laughed, “Besides, we are anticipating an aerial offensive first.”

General Chang nodded, “We have time,” he observed, “for a good steak and chips first.”

“No noodles?” Len Thomas grinned at him.

Chang just smiled, paused, and then said, “Was that enigmatic enough?”

They chuckled and went into the ‘Raffles’ for lunch.

“Do we have a conference?” a Singapore Air Force Colonel spoke into a microphone in the middle of the table.

Confirmations came from all over the world. The Colonel checked them off on his master list. At last he nodded to Sir Arthur and sat down.

“Thank you, Colonel Chen. This voice is now Sir Arthur Darby speaking to you since we have, at present, no visuals set up.

“This meeting is just to inform those of you that have yet to hear, that there has been another message picked up by Parkes, Sheshan and ALMA.

“Rather than play you the tape I shall read out a transcript of the message and trust that you will accept that what I have here is an accurate translation. This time the message came in Swahili. Perhaps not the most commonly used language on the planet, with due deference to Major General Muteitha. It does give us a clue, however, that they have studied us closely.

“Here is the message: ‘People of Earth, as you call yourselves collectively. We observe your disunity. We note your dissimilar needs. We recognise your disparity of wealth. You will soon be conquered. You will soon subjugate yourselves to our will. There is no possibility of resistance.’

“The message ends there.

“The astronomers tell us that the speed of the signal coming towards us has been calculated and that the last known position is precisely pinpointed. The signal source yesterday was just beyond the orbit of Pluto. If it maintains its current velocity it will be with us in two weeks, or just less.”

An unidentified voice with a Spanish accent came over the speaker, “Do we know if this ship that heads our way is manned.  I use the word ‘manned’ advisedly. Perhaps it is a robotic ship such as we send into space. Sorry. Rodrigues, Mexico.”

“We have no idea of any information regarding the ship at present. Hubble has been directed towards the coordinates in the hope that it will see something early to give us a clue,” Sir Arthur said.

“Gudjonsson, Iceland. So we still know nothing apart from the threat?”

“That is correct.”

“Williamson, RAF. Is there any clue from its current trajectory where it may land?”

“None. The people at Sheshan have made a tentative estimate that it could be over Africa/Asia region when it arrives. Where it will land is another matter, of course.”

“Quite, quite. If we had a clue we could set up some sort of aerial defensive perimeter. At present we are waiting until the last minute before deploying any forces.”

“That is also correct. As I said just now, Mike, the possibility is that it could arrive over Africa and then land anywhere it bloody chooses.”

“Levon, Israel. We are still without intelligence.”

“Yes. This meeting is for your information only. We have nothing to act on other than be ready for anything. Needless to say, this is serious—I doubt these chaps will be throwing rocks.”

Len Thomas shifted uneasily in his chair knowing Sir Arthur was sailing a bit close to the wind.

“Anything else from anyone?”

Silence.

“No? Then we will go back home and await the next event.”

Very little happened that was useful to the Earth Defence Force, as they had titled themselves, over the next two weeks.

There were more transmissions in a similar vein all in different languages including, Hindi, Mandarin and Malay.

A few days after their last meeting, Hubble picked up a bright dot. Ground observatories trained their eyes on it; the light was inspected and analysed. They agreed it was some sort of exhaust glare. The astronautics people at NASA declared that it was a space ship firing retro rockets to slow down for Earth orbit.

The astronomers confirmed that the ship was slowing down and new forecasts for arrival time and location were calculated.

“How big is it?” Sir Arthur asked Tom Myers.

“We don’t know,” General Myers admitted, “I guess if it’s an invasion force it’s going to be pretty hefty.”

March Fourth. The alien ship formatted on the Shuttle. The Shuttle crew said that it gave no indication of observing them, it just sat there for a few hours and then moved off.

The astronomers could now measure it. Most people with reasonable binoculars could see it.

March fifth. It broke orbit and settled down to Earth in Sri Lanka. At a kilometre long and just over half that wide it filled the airport at Colombo.

Defence forces rushed to the site but it was clear that the response time was going to be inadequate.

First on the scene was the local representative, Group Captain Kularatne.

He had a small squad of military with him armed with light weapons; the heavy artillery was still on its way from the North.

Fingers tightened on triggers as a small hatch opened up in the front of the ship. A set of steps, only four deep, extended to the ground.

Two buxom, and underclad, beauties bounced down the steps and arrayed themselves either side.

A braying of trumpets and a man in a loud suit and louder tie appeared at the top of the steps.

He flung his arms wide and announced in perfect Tamil, “Lucky, lucky people of Earth. I am here to bring you irresistible offers from ‘NovaToy’ the Galactic Novelty Company...

Facing Death

Death.

Nobody wants to know about death.

It is something that we all have to face. Nobody knows when it will pounce on us.

Two things brought this up recently.

The first occasion was when we, my wife and I, went to visit one of her old school mates.

This lady is an exceptionally pleasant person living in a small village somewhere very near the back of beyond.

She has cancer. The dreaded ‘Big C’.

They are giving her chemotherapy. She has had multiple doses already and seems destined for more. Hopefully, we pray, that the treatment will be a success and that she can return to a normal, productive, life.

But, inevitably, there is a shadow hanging over her.

There is, of course, scant comfort in the idea that there are thousands, perhaps millions, of people in the same boat. Cancer, like death, is personal; it is chilling and you are alone with it. Nobody can feel what you feel; nobody can understand your fears.

I touched, briefly, on this subject in my first novel. In an early chapter one of the main characters is dying of an unspecified form of cancer. She is defiant yet fearful; terrified of the prospect of the imminent death yet she hides that terror from everyone.

We do that. We wish to appear brave when such courage is, ultimately, useless.

We are, most of us, familiar with the phases of anger, fear, denial and acceptance but no manner of preparation can really be successful. Nobody wants to die.

Even people who commit suicide rarely want, I am sure, to die. They have just reached a point where there appears to be no choices left open to them.

Some people do not have the opportunity to prepare themselves.

Recently, in the news, a young boy was taken from near his home. His body has just been discovered floating in the river downstream from where he was abducted.

Who would do this? Who could possibly be mentally twisted enough to take the life of a small person?

It is impossible to put yourself into the mind of a monster that would carry out such a heinous act.

We are accustomed to old people dying. We observe this as a fact of life; it is something we view as inevitable.

We bandy such words as, “Well, they had a good run,” if the person was elderly. Those words are true.

We sometimes say that ‘life is too short’ for such and such when, truly, life, however long, or short, it is will be the longest thing that you know.

The horror of a small child, a young person, being killed either by accident or by the hand of an adult, is too abhorrent to tolerate. It is bad enough that children are taken from their families by disease but as a deliberate attack by some inhuman hand is beyond logical or sensible thought.

The indescribable reality is that the life of a future Prime Minister, a person who discovers the cure for some dread disease, an astrophysicist who will discover the secrets of the Universe has just ended. That future has now gone and, along with it, the hopes and dreams of thousands of strangers.

None of us know when we will go. We all live life as if we are immortal and that is how it, rightly, should be.

Statistically I should be among the next batch to ‘go’ (I can almost hear the cheers) but who knows? I could live a long and fruitful life beyond the normal span (I can hear the groans!).

Steve Jobs once said, “Live your life as if every day will be your last. One day you will be right.”

Preparation and acceptance are poles apart.

That is why nobody wants to know about it.