I said, “You go ahead. You’re faster than I am.”
He said, “No, you go. Then I can pass you. I enjoy that!”

Statistics have never been my strong point but words I really enjoy. Some of the Covid statistics I have found bewildering and the use of words in presenting those statistics sloppy. To me there is a world of difference between someone dying ‘of’ Covid and someone dying ‘with’ Covid. The former suggests to me Covid as the primary cause of a death whereas the latter, the ‘with’ suggests that Covid was present but that the death was probably because of ‘underlying causes’. The BBC report always makes clear the ‘with’ refers to a positive diagnosis within the previous twenty eight days of a death.

The correct use of the words seems to me especially important because of the fear that surrounds this virus. The reality is that people do die and that there are many different causes. Of course Covid-19 is a significant cause especially now but it is not the only cause of death. It is the only cause, apart from murders, being reported on daily.

One article I found helpful recently was reprinted in ‘The Week’. In it I read that the vast majority of people who have died ‘from’ Covid-19 in England in the first half of this year had not been fully vaccinated. This ‘from’ I assume is ‘of’ but perhaps it is ‘with’. Maybe it doesn’t really matter

The information in the article is very important because it made clear that of 51,000 deaths only 256 deaths were classed as ‘breakthrough’ cases – in patients who’d been infected at least 14 days after their second jab. The vaccination programme has clearly been critical in preventing the spread of this virus which makes the anti-vaccination campaign and those who choose not to be vaccinated all the more astonishing to me. Clearly it is those who have not been vaccinated and have Covid-19 who are occupying hospital beds, placing a strain on the health system and preventing others who need hospital treatment from getting it.

The ‘I want doesn’t get,’ of my childhood is replaced by, ‘I want must have.’ Only in this case it’s, ‘I want wont have!’

I was swimming in the medium lane when another of the regulars came alongside at the end of the pool. She is older than I am and is a most elegant swimmer. There’s a rumour that she may even be a former Olympic swimmer but none of us has had the courage to ask her. As well as being an elegant swimmer she is faster than I am so I said, “Please go ahead. You’re fast.” To which she replied with a smile, “In my day it was not polite to tell a lady she was fast,” and swam away – speedily.

It almost slipped me by. I was watching a television documentary about art in Japan. Not the one about Yayoi Kusama another documentary. The presenter said, apropos of I can’t remember what, “Who wants an answer when you can have a question.” And I thought, “That’s me.” I am far far more interested in questions than I am in answers.

Of course answers have their place and are often essential in allowing me to move on to the next whatever but it is a question that really opens things up. An answer, it seems to me, often closes things down. No more discussion. There can be a fundamentalism in having the answers that I find unappealing.

But questions are not always what they seem. And there are many different types of question. One of the Buddhist monks I met years ago in Yangon asked me what I knew about Buddhism. But what he really wanted was to make sure that I had the ‘right’ understanding, his understanding, of Buddhism. There are as many different traditions within Buddhism as within Christianity. That attitude exists in all religions, philosophies and political groups. There are always those who ask the questions while knowing they have the right answers.

And then there are those other questions when the question isn’t the question at all. I remember an old friend asking me, “What is the purpose of my life?” This was when she was alone, ninety one, on the verge of dementia, and couldn’t look after herself. She said, “There’s no point in living any more. Why am I living? What’s it for? What’s the purpose of my life?” I struggled and eventually said I didn’t know. She said, “Well you should!” I’ve had ideas about that purpose since but that was not actually what her question was about.

Her ‘should’ related to my being a priest and, as a priest, she thought I would have the answer. I think many people assume the church has the answer to most questions. I don’t. I think the church struggles with the questions and I’m not convinced the answer is always there or even if the answer really solves the problem or is the answer.

And her question may have been a question but I’m sure it was not the philosophical issue about the meaning of life that was troubling her but rather her loss of everything that she thought gave her identity. I think she wasn’t really asking me anything at all but rather was telling me, in her way, that she felt lost, adrift, alone and in need of something familiar to hold on to. I don’t think her need was going to be satisfied with words.

Early on I discovered that, “Why has this happened to me?”, usually in the face of a serious illness or tragic death, is not answerable and can sometimes be helped simply by being present in the pain of the question. And the distress of, ‘Why don’t you love me any more?’, has no tidy answer. Nor of course does, ‘Why do you love me?’ The questions open up and express so much while the answers, I suspect, lead nowhere.

Then there is an idea that questions are somehow neutral or innocent. I suppose, “Do you know the way to…,” is fairly neutral. Children sometimes ask questions in their innocence. These are often embarrassing especially when asked in a loud voice in a public place such as the supermarket, “Mummy/Daddy why is that man/woman wearing those funny clothes?” And that’s a very mild example. But adults’ questions rarely have that innocence.

I’ve often had to point out to someone who has come to me for advice that part of the responsibility for asking a question lies with the person who asks it. And I’ve sometime said, “Can you cope with an answer you don’t like or expect?”

“Have you been unfaithful?” Not only requires the ability to deal with the answer and whether or not to believe it, but also the responsibility for having asked the question in the first place. The response, “Don’t you trust me?” need not be asked because the answer lies in the question having been asked in the first place.

We all know the trap question, “Have you stopped beating your wife? Yes or No?” and the question that is asked in order for the questioner to display their own knowledge or the trick question to which the questioner already knows the answer and they’re just testing your knowledge.

Despite all this I still love questions and frequently find my own answers, or what I think I think, only when I’ve asked a question that opens up a discussion. Asking questions leads to my discoveries.

And there’s the fun I find in questions. I am told I must be careful and sensitive to other people’s feelings when asking someone where they’re from as there is sometimes considered to be a racist element in the question. I hope I am aware of the sensibilities of those I ask. When I was in New Zealand recently some of the most interesting conversations I had were with Uber drivers and, almost invariably, these began with, “Where are you from?” So far I’ve not had the deflective, “Why do you ask?” nor the conclusive, “It’s none of your business!”

The “Hello. Where are you from?” That I’m asked when I’m travelling opens up a whole new world and new wonders and even friendships in the dialogue that follows. The joy of the solitary traveller is largely found in the questions the locals ask.

Having thought all that, I know I must never lose sight of local custom and the importance of answers and the security they give or do not give as the case may be.

I learned that lesson many years ago in Singapore when asking Chinese friends to dinner. They would always accept but not necessarily turn up. It would have been rude to say no on first asking. The custom there, at that time, was that you asked and the person would say, ‘Yes’. A couple of days later you would ask again and they would say, ‘I do hope to be able to come.’ On the third asking you would be told, ‘That is so kind of you but I will be away in London so will not be able to come.’ They’d known about London all the time but customary politeness came first.

I thought that strange until someone reminded me of having people to tea in Manchester where I was a curate. After the first cup,
“Would you like another cup?” – “No thank you. That was delicious. So refreshing.”
“Are you sure?” – “Well, perhaps I might.”
“Oh please do have another cup?” – “Yes I believe I will. Thank you so much.”

(With apologies to Angela Brazil)

A picture fell off the wall above the fireplace in my bedroom. I had rehung it without checking the wire. It fell with a crash. A great crash. The watercolour by E A Hope of a village square somewhere in France I inherited from Cousin Mary who must have bought it in the 1930s. It is large and was in its original frame with the original glass. The glass shattered and there were shards everywhere. After I’d gathered them up I picked up the fragments. I could still see the light reflecting on even tinier pieces of glass so I got to work with the Hoover. Even after that there were still dangerous pieces of glass left behind. I went downstairs and fetched Letitia. I pressed ‘auto’ on the remote and left her to it. Two hours later she was still at work but her dust container was full of dust and the remaining pieces of glass. Not a trace of broken glass was left on the carpet. Well done Laetitia!