It is sad when a friend dies, even more so a very dear one. But this sadness is not without hope.  Now I’m not talking about an ‘I’ll see you again’, sort of hope, which has always seemed to me very earthbound, as in, ‘See you later’, or ‘See you in Sloane Square’, or Kennington Park or wherever. That would have raised a smile from Bill Scott and I certainly find it amusing – that word again – to say the least.  

The sort of hope that Bill and I share is in a life that includes the Divine,  the Other, or as another good friend put it, ‘that is shot through with Eternity’. This hope is founded on our belief in a life that is more than a material or mechanical or earthbound existence. 

Of course my belief is impossible to prove in exactly the same way that a belief in life totally bound by conception and death is also impossible to prove. However I find myself set free in an extraordinary way by the awareness that to every thought, every discovery, every encounter, there is the possibility of more and that nothing is the final answer. Faith is the foundation of my hope and one aspect of this hope is that it involves patience and does not demand or expect either immediate answers or immediate solutions.

This is not an excuse for avoiding responsibility for the sustainability of the planet or the struggle for justice, but rather the opposite. It is a call to responsibility in the context of hope and not of despair and in the context of love and not of fear. It is dynamic and not static and, I guess, evolutionary not revolutionary.

If all this sounds too much like a sermon – tough. Bill Scott was someone who could say all these sorts of things without it sounding like a sermon not least because his priesthood was totally and completely him and it didn’t come on and off with his clerical collar. And that is at least part of why I will miss him.

PS More on Words

Some words change in meaning for no apparent reason. Such changes explain the fact that Sir Christopher Wren, the architect of St. Paul’s Cathedral, was pleased and not offended when it was called, “amusing, awful, and artificial.” In those days amusing meant amazing, awful meant awe-inspiring, and artificial meant artistic. Surely we must therefore do some careful research before we presume to know, and take offence at, the meaning of words expressed in an historical context. The meaning may have changed from something that was fine then to something quite different and unacceptable in our time.

In my last ‘Thought’, not a particularly deep thought, but I did enjoy thinking it, I had written ‘It made Shanghai less exotic’. I sent the first draft to a young friend who helps me clarify my thoughts and he pointed out that the word ‘exotic’, these days, has a negative history with colonial overtones. So I changed ‘exotic’ to ‘exciting’ because I didn’t want to give offence to anyone. Generally I don’t want to give offence and certainly not unintentionally. 

Later I went back to my Cambridge English Dictionary and I discovered the definition of exotic; ‘unusual and exciting because of coming (or seeming to come) from far away, especially a tropical country,’ which is exactly what I meant even though I would not have seen Shanghai or China as particularly ‘tropical’. It seems that words change their meanings so quickly that even a dictionary on the internet is out of date.

But it has made me think more about words that have, in my lifetime, changed their meaning and which can now give offence. Or even words that have simply changed their meaning.  A gay party sixty years ago when I began going to parties was a different party to a gay party today. And I remember Cousin Mary, fifty years older than me, describing as ‘amusing’ a situation which was not in the least bit funny but rather interesting and puzzling. Then of course ‘funny’ is an odd word as sometimes it does not mean amusing so that we used to say, ‘Funny ha ha or Funny peculiar?’

And as I now wonder about ‘exotic’ I realise I must be careful about ‘native’. I grew up with trees being either native or exotic and I simply don’t know if these words are all right if applied to trees and plants but not in other contexts. Am I a native New Zealander? I always thought I was. Sometimes it is hard to keep up with the changes.

There’s a whole list of words used in a particular context that mean the opposite to their regular use or something completely different, bad – good, wicked – fun, cool – smart, I’m not sure what the new meaning of ‘sad’ is but I know there’s a meaning other than the meaning I am familiar with. When I was choosing between some frames for my spectacles the optician told me that one pair were ‘sharp’ and the others weren’t. From the tone of voice I gathered sharp was in some sense good or smart or fashionable or at least something positive. I chose the sharp pair.

But it’s the words that give offence that are the problem for me.  I’m told if I read more I would know which words I shouldn’t use. But there’s still a chance I will get it wrong simply because of my age. There are words that I may not say or write now, usually words descriptive of race, religion or gender, that were commonly used sixty years ago and by and large I’ve tried to learn not to use them. Then there are other words never used then that  are commonplace now and some of them offend me, but I must learn to live with it and I do. 

I am irritated when attending a service from the Book of Common Prayer and the person leading the service ‘corrects’ Cranmer’s English to make it acceptable. For example changing ‘men’ to ‘people’. I know some may be offended by the use of the word men to describe people but I would have thought the historical context and the beauty of the language could be taken into account. It seems to me that those who correct have a lot in common with our Victorian forebears who covered the genitalia of statues with fig leaves. There are a lot of figurative fig leaves around these days and they seem to cover  everything other than genitalia!

So that is one problem for me. There’s another, related I think, and much more serious. St Augustine described words as ‘those precious cups of meaning’. It is when I am deprived of the words that I have at my disposal to say what I mean. Then I am forced into a self isolation of expression that is every bit as bad if not worse than that imposed by Covid 19. Of course I’m not claiming some right to free speech that allows me to shout ‘Fire’ in a crowded cinema when there is no fire. I am saying that if my use of words is so judged that what I am trying to say, the meaning of what I am trying to say, is never heard, then I am pushed into a dangerous isolation.

I am fortunate to have a fairly wide vocabulary. What happens to those whose vocabulary is limited and much of it deemed ‘unacceptable’. They are condemned to silence and I suspect it’s a silence that leads to frustration and, in the end, to a dangerous explosion. Or, as I do, they find smaller and smaller groups of people with whom they can say the things they want to say and express the ideas they want to explore and so they end up being with people just like them, with ideas just like theirs, which is not what any of us need at all. 

Thank goodness that since the awful George Floyd killing in Minneapolis, a city and people distant in custom and culture from anything many of us know, the arguments and the discussions about racism have not been restricted to small groups of like minded people but have exploded into major discussion and debate around the world. There has been a mind opening for many, including me, as a result. And the learning has been allowed to happen.  

I need my ideas, the meaning my words contain, to be challenged so that I can learn and grow. And I need to be allowed to get past my first sentence without being challenged for using an ‘unacceptable’ word. Isn’t having the discussion more important than using the right words? I do still want my ‘unacceptable’ words to be explained to me so that I don’t repeat them, but after, rather than during. And I need to learn, even at my age, not to interrupt, and to let the other person get to the end of their sentence before I leap in with a comment or a correction!

There are some things I would like to see standardised such as electric plugs. Even my international multi plug adaptor seems to miss out sometimes. And then I remember the sense of disappointment when I first visited Shanghai more than ten years ago and I realised the rubbish bins were identical to those in Kennington. A standard shape and size and the same colours. It somehow made Shanghai less exciting. I’m not sure why.  Southwark Council bins are probably made in China.

I am very glad that street designations are not standardised. Today I did my brisk walk, saying my prayers, along Kennington Park Road, skirting Elephant and Castle passed the Metropolitan Tabernacle into St George’s Road with a pause at St George’s Cathedral. After the Cathedral, Lambeth Road left into Kennington Road and completing the triangle back into Kennington Park Road and home. Road after road after road, a little boring perhaps? And according to an app on my telephone – 4,797 steps, 3.3km.

Only it wasn’t boring at all. I became aware that even in this small area I passed a Close and a Way. Because I chose neither I missed out on a Crescent but Kennington Park Road becomes Newington Butts. Butts probably because there may have been archery butts there in mediaeval times. There can’t be all that many streets that are Butts.

After the Cathedral I decided not to turn right to a Cut or a Marsh but turned left into Kennington Road and so passed a Drive, a Square and, on the other side of the road, a Walk. Then I had a Terrace on my left and, because I was doing the main roads, I missed a Court and a Passage. I crossed a Lane and further on passed a Row, a Green and, on the home stretch, Kennington Park Gardens.

Going this way I also missed a Mews, a Place, Arches and an Alley. They are on the Walworth Road side. Though we have at least three Ways I haven’t yet found a Broadway. There are no Avenues that I’ve come across yet, nor a Parade. There are lots of Streets. There’s no Triangle but there are many Squares and, very importantly, The Oval. 

It must be confusing for visitors and it all could be standardised and made more simple. It’s years since I was last in New York. In theory it should be the easiest city in the world in which to find your way round. The grid pattern of numbers, streets and avenues should make it so simple that you can’t get lost. It is so simple yet I still get lost.

So much variety in an hour of walking. I’ve lived here for more than twenty years and now, because of Lockdown, I know my local area far better than before and am still making discoveries. It quite lifts the spirit. I hope we never standardise either the names or the designations of our highways and byways. 

Some of the family came to visit. Because they are my designated ‘other household’ the government now allows us to hug. That’s a huge joy and relief. My grandson Freddie has won the poetry reading competition for his year group. From Roald Dahl’s Revolting Rhymes he chose ‘Goldilocks and the Three Bears’. He recited it for me.

It includes this.

Then Dad cries, “Golly-gosh! Gee-whiz! Oh Cripes! How hot this porridge is!

Let’s  take a walk along the street until it’s cool enough to eat.

”He adds, “An early morning stroll is good for people on the whole 

it makes your appetite improve it also helps your bowels to move.”

Years ago now, when I was working in Chelsea, I was in the queue at the checkout at Waitrose in the King’s Road having done the weekly shop. In front of me in the queue was an elderly woman who was slow, but I wasn’t in a hurry, and she chatted to the woman at the checkout. She was from the Philippines, the woman at the checkout that is,  I learned from their conversation. At one point the elderly customer reached out and took the hand of the checkout lady and held on to it, then, rather embarrassed, she turned to me and said, ‘I’m so sorry to hold you up but it’s wonderful just to be able to touch someone.’ 

I know there is dirty money because I hear and read about money laundering and you only go to the laundry if you have something dirty that needs to be washed and made clean. The most obvious dirty money, obvious to me that is, is money acquired criminally like from robbing a bank. Or from robbing anybody. It’s dirty because it’s not legally yours.

Then there’s the money gained in other countries by dubious methods by our standards here in the UK. This needs to be laundered so that it can be used or invested here and so can become legal and clean. I gather that’s one of the reasons oligarchs want to buy property here.

The Cambridge English Dictionary defines dirty money as ‘money that someone gets in an unfair, illegal, or dishonest way’.

So I understand the illegal or dishonestly acquired money. But what about that which is gained ‘unfairly’.

I grew up on a farm, sheep and cattle. The sheep bred either for their wool or for lamb or mutton for the table. The cattle bred either for breeding stock or for their meat. The wonderful thing about growing up on a farm is that you can believe that the money that keeps you and your family going is from something that obviously contributes to the wider community. You are providing food and clothing. The money made is most surely clean. 

But not to animal rights activists or even perhaps to vegetarians. It is most certainly ‘dirty money’ as it’s unfair to the animals that are slaughtered.  And anyway is it ‘fair’ that the land that is farmed is privately owned? It may be legal but is it fair? 

Is the money earned by someone who worked for Wonga, the loan company exposed by the Church of England and now out of business, is the money that was earned by an employee of Wonga, dirty? They may have needed the job but they must have known what they were doing. Until the government changed the law it may have been legal but it certainly was unfair.

I now feel nervous when I buy any item of clothing that has on the label, ‘Made in Bangladesh’, or Vietnam or China, where we know there are people working for very little money, under terrible, by our standards, conditions. Of course there are the directors of the companies and the shareholders who must bear the main  responsibility for decisions made. But is the money the shop assistant is paid for handling and selling that clothing, unfairly gained?

People who have money invested are asked if they wish only to have ‘ethical’ investments. But who decides what is ‘ethical’? Of course ultimately it must be the investor. While I realise tobacco companies are a big no no for the ethical investor I gather there are funds that are of such complexity that it’s very difficult to sort them out. I think the Archbishop of Canterbury had difficulty over that with the Church of England’s investments. 

As we look back at money made by dealing in the slave trade I do wonder what future generations will look back on, with amazement, when they see what we have invested in without a thought about fairness. Deciding what is acquired ‘unfairly’ seems to me to change from generation to generation and from culture to culture. 

I would not like the job of watching as the collection plate is passed around in church, when of course lockdown allows collection plates to be passed, I would not like the job of deciding which 50p piece, has been unfairly gained. And then, having made my judgement, of handing it back to the giver with my, ‘I can’t accept that. It’s dirty money.’