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Sadly the item referred to below is no longer available. What was especially shocking about Banaz's death, apart from the fact that she went to the police some years before to tell them what was happening to her, was that as part of the planned process of killing her, (after her parents left the house, supposedly to go shopping), she was subjected to depraved sexual abuse by relatives. Later, and caught on a police bugging device, one of the killers was heard to boast, that in degrading her sexually, his objective was, to destroy her soul, so that (according to his mindset), she would die worthless. Cormac March 3rd 2013 __________ Last night quite by chance, I came across the story of Banaz Mahamod. It was broadcast on ITV 1. It is still available on their I Player, so if you can spare 50 minutes, please watch it; but I must warn you, that the description of how Banaz died is detailed and especially disturbing, so have regard to that in making your decision http://www.itv.com/itvplayer/video/?Filter=327184
Growing up as we did in uncertain circumstances, my mother had a few sayings that made light of the situation. When as a small boy I asked, "What's for dinner?" the answer always was, "roast duck and green peas." Now as roast duck had never ever appeared on my plate, I had nothing to go on; but as for the peas being "green," that really flummoxed me. "Aren't peas always green?" that voice in my head kept asking, but I never confided in my mother over this conundrum, because my inclination, from a very early age, when confronted with something that I didn't understand, was to try to find the answer myself.
And I was just the same at school. When the teacher first told us that a noun was: "the name of a person place or a thing," I fell behind in class, when it was pointed out that some things that I thought were nouns, were not. What bothered me, was the concerting of nouns with "things." Now whether or not I was especially bright, and the rest of my classmates were bluffing, or I was in some sense deficient, I will leave you to decide; but, from where I sat at my desk, any idea that came into my head was, "a thing," which made it well-nigh impossible to conceive of anything that wasn't a noun. And I was just as bad, when my ear was glued to the wireless, listening to serious voices telling me that strike breakers had been, "sent to Coventry." At moments like these I would come away perplexed, wondering what it was about Coventry that caused people to be sent there; and I never thought to ask for an explanation, for to wonder was more important than to know.
All of that said, and in the context of my nose, when we come to look back, Saturday the 19th of May will mean different thing to different people, and especially if their forte was sport. A day if you like of extremes of emotion. Happily, for those who are running in the relay that will carry the Olympic flame from Lands End in Cornwall to the Olympic Stadium in East London, there will be no losers. But spare a thought for the players and fans of Ulster, (Rugby) who were thumped 42-14 by Leinster, in what was an all Irish, Heineken, European Cup Final; and for Hibernian, (football) beaten 6-1 by their Edinburgh city rivals Hearts, in the Scottish FA Cup Final. And Blackpool, who failed to secure promotion back to the Premier League. I have nothing whatever against the people of West Ham, but I have a soft spot for "the seasiders", whose manager Ian Holloway was a refreshing voice when they were last in the Premier League. And what of Bayem Munich and their fans, who could, and should have won the prise that went instead to Chelsea: the European Champions League Final; and all the more hurtful, as they lost at their own stadium in Munich. As a spectacle the match offered little until the 84th minute, when Buyem scored, only for Didier Drogba in the dying seconds to make it 1-1. And the thirty minutes of extra time was just as forgettable. But again Buyem who appeared to be winning the penalty shoot-out, lost, to that talisman, Drogba.
Now sincere apologies if you are not interested in football, but as I am, and I missed all but the last of these showcase events, it fits the bill, for I will remember the 19th May as the date in which the second, and hopefully final stage of reconstructive surgery on my nose, took place. I say "hopefully final," because when Dr Moncrieff spoke to me before the operation, he held out the prospect of further surgery: when the bulge in the graft would have to be paired down. But afterwards, he seemed well pleased with his work, and inclined to the view that further surgery wouldn't be necessary. So my hope is, that when we meet again, that will still be the case.
In my previous blog I wrote, I hope, with precision and skill, as well as a degree of humour, about my pre and post operative experiences: of the general anaesthetic and the subtle way in which the anaesthetist went about knocking me out. And I told of the unexpected pleasure when I found myself wrapped in a thermal blanket. Well this time it was different. As I lay on the operating table, with a wry smile, and an apology, I confirmed to the nurse, (seemingly for the umpteenth time,) that I was who I was supposed to be. At that moment my sense of the ironic, came from the fact that I was wearing two name tags, one on my left wrist and the other on my right ankle; and my apology was in recognition of the seriousness of the processes that were underway, as will be apparent from this, a story that I know to be true, because it happened to me
In 2001. after an appendectomy, I had a longish stay in hospital, and when I had got to the point where I was no longer in need of careful attentions, but was not quite ready to go home, they moved me into a private room. I had not been lying there long and marvelling at my good fortune, when a geeky nurse (professorial looking and bespectacled,) appeared at the side of my bed. In her hand she had a large syringe and asked rhetorically: "You are Mr Hall?" Well I never found out what was in the syringe, nor did I complain. Without doubt I had at least one name tag, almost certainly on my wrist, but as this strange creature had wanted to hear directly from the horses mouth, I was thankful that I knew who I was, and could tell her so.
Well returning to the operating theatre, they were busy fixing me up to the heart and blood pressure monitors, the oxygen supply, and other things, when one of the nurses turned and asked if I was alright. In the circumstances it was an entirely reasonable question to ask, but as I was not sure that her asking it, was a coincidence, in reassuring her, I felt the need to explain that I had just been engaged in what was - a very private moment.
As for the post operative experience in the recovery room, I wasn't at all happy with myself: my mouth was dry, my throat uncomfortable, and I was struggling to cough and felt agitated; and there was no thermal blanket to keep me company, just ice cubes, for which I was mighty grateful. Now I don't want to speculate as to why I felt so different this time around, or to imply that in an age of cost-cutting, there was something less that the best in the treatment I received. To begin with, I have no professional knowledge to go on; and that apart, this operation was quite different from the original more extensive surgery. So the processes surrounding it may justifiably have been different; and help to explain why I felt so rough, and was missing that thermal blanket.
Now in telling my story there is a sense in which I feel that I am cheating, with the dramatic headline, "CANCER", for however concerning mine was, it was never life threatening. And even if I accept, that when one thing goes badly wrong, it might be the catalyst for worse to come, I still feel uneasy, because I know that for many, cancer is a deeply distressing, and all too frequently, fatal condition.
On Thursday last, at the local Parish Church, we attended the funeral of Charlotte, a loved family friend, who died after a six year battle with the disease; and adding to the sadness, was the fact that her death came just a few days after her sixtieth birthday. Through most of her illness she shared her experiences with her many friends, only in the latter stages did she leave us to come to our own conclusions, as she opted out of her regular engagements, and left the door open as to whether or not she would or would not turn up on a particular day. All of us understood that she would not recover, but what took us aback, was the speed of her decline at the end. And something of her courage and commitment to her friends, is reflected in her coming here to dinner with her husband Richard, just a month before she died. She ate little and stayed for a long time, and rightly or wrongly, as we thought about how long they had stayed, we interpreted it as Charlotte's way of thanking us for our friendship and of saying goodbye.
Until she discovered her own cancer, Charlotte had lived a full and healthy life, during which, and though she had lived in different places, she had made and kept many friendships, a truth affectionately confirmed, when Jenny, after the funeral, asked of someone whom she knew to be a friend, where she met Charlotte. Just one word said it all, "Everywhere!" She had a passion for the outdoors; for walking, not just here at home, but in far away exotic locations, and this aspect of her life was reflected in the funeral service that was a celebration of her life. The small church was packed, and though the vicar reminded us that it was a place in which prayers had been said for a thousand years, my experience of life, told me, that at this poignant moment, believers, non believers and skeptics, were well represented.
Well as a believer with his own share of uncertainty, allow me to tell you of something unexpected that came from Charlotte's funeral. Among her chosen hymns was Lord of the Dance. I was familiar with it, but, believing it to belong to what is sometimes called the "happy-clappy" movement, I never thought to take it seriously. But now I was experiencing it differently, as a hymn deeply rooted in the Gospels, and one that confronts the world as it appears to us, in particular the dichotomy between the presence and absence of God in the world; an absence, that for many, quite literally, "beggars belief". And in terms of these seeming contradictions there was something majestic, powerful, and challenging, in the Dance, that I hadn't noticed before.
Though the hymn is well known, it is still under copyright, so I quote it only in part, but in a way that I hope will help to reinforce the point.
For me, there was a particular ring of truth in those opening lines that remind us: that it was fishermen, and not the acclaimed religious leaders, "the scribe and the pharisee" (who were expecting the Messiah,) who responded to Christ. And there was a deeper truth in those lines that address the vexed question of suffering:
"I danced on the Sabbath and I cured the lame.
The holy people said it was a shame.
They whipped and they stripped and they hung me on high;
They left me there on the cross to die."
Here, I was being reminded of the truth, that God incarnate subjected himself to the worst excesses in the human condition: to a barbaric form of execution, in which, (even by our standards,) there was no justice; whatever, and that, to that extent at least, we can know the mind of God.
Nor had I spotted until now, in the hymn's happy refrain, that there is an invitation and subtly expressed message of hope:
"Dance, then, wherever you may be;
I am the Lord of the Dance, said he,
And I'll lead you all, wherever you may be,
And I'll lead you all in the Dance, said he."
The point being, "wherever" [in your life] "you may be."
Now in wanting to make the point that however inconvenient or taxing, my cancer was as nothing compared to what it might have been; I want to tell you also, that when I first went in to hospital, I brought with me, the "Wishing you well again soon" message, that Charlotte posted through the letterbox less than three weeks before she died.
And now that I can once again wear my reading glasses, for me, the dance does go on. So, it is back to the poetry of Yeats, to Dante's Divine Comedy, and the late historian Alan Bullock's vast study of the "Parallel Lives" of Hitler and Stalin, and to books of poetry that I have yet to read, and in the hope that all this endeavour, will, at some point in the future, feed in to another book of poems. And on the subject of published poems, I must tell you that mine had nothing to do with UNESCO recently declaring Norwich to be a city of literature. As I understand it, the award is given in perpetuity, and it is the first city in England to receive it. And right now we are in the midst of the Norfolk & Norwich Festival, that some are claiming will soon be on a par with that of Edinburgh. So myself and Jenny will be cultured out when it is over. Recently it was the Berlin Symphony Orchestra and Julian Lloyd Webber accompanying them on his 17c Cello. And last night at the Theatre Royal, we were warmly applauding an Afro Cubism eleven piece band; that as you would expect, was musicianship of the highest order, with dancing in the isles.
Wednesday 14th June 2012
So far so good & the sheen comes from Bio Oil which I will be using for the next couple of months
If you have read my previous blog "CANCER" you will understand when I say that this morning I was feeling down on account of my nose, though things are going well and according to plan; in fact, it was bandaged in such a way today as to suggest that they are starting to expose the graft to the elements. But what has had me feeling low and frustrated, is, not being able to read. Well, mid-day a large envelope arrived addressed to me, which was a surprise, as a good deal more wood pulp is used in communicating with Jenny. But, what had arrived for me, was the Self Publishing Magazine for Spring 2012, which I leafed through, and there on p. 46 was a review of my poems, some 7 months after I had sent them to the magazine. In total 30 books were reviewed under the headings: Biography, Writing, Academic, History, Fiction, Children's Fiction and Poetry, (with just two books reviewed in this last category). The reviewers are independent of the magazine, and are named on the Reviews Editor Page, but I have no idea who, among them wrote the review in my case. So allow me to share with you, something that made a difficult day, a whole lot better.
Book Review
"Who Would be a Girl when
You Can be a Boy?"
"This little volume of poetry is an absolute joy. The poems are simply constructed, take you through all that life throws up and are presented in the order in which they were written, although I much preferred to dip in, marking out my favourites as I went along. There are six pages of notes at the end of this book, which put a little extra colour to the main work, and I found this a very nice and thoughtful touch.
Small collections of personal poetry are notoriously difficult to market and sell, so I don't think that Mr McCloskey will make a fortune. He will however, have something very special to pass on to his family, friends and complete strangers like me. The title is wonderfully un-PC and I hope that it does not put the ladies off. "Who Would be a Girl..." is the fourth poem in this book and I found that transposing "Boy" and Girl" all the way through did not make any difference as even my future wife wanted to join the Navy!
Most books I get for review are given away, go to the car boot sale or are recycled. This little book sits on my bedside table. I think it may be there for a long time.
Cormac E McCloskey Publications
780956845504 £ 8.00"
Now here is an interesting thing, an indication of how stupid I can be at times.
Recently while at the Norwich & Norfolk University Hospital for a pre operation assessment, I got myself in a tangle over the request that, when admitted for surgery, I bring my medications with me, and in their original containers. Perhaps because my medications are few, and I don't think hospital, that helps to explains how I came to be confused, and certainly the nurse on duty must have thought me profoundly stupid when I queried this request. As I told her, "everyone knows what an Aspirin looks like, and most people know what a Statin looks like." But she agreed that there was no point in my bringing them, if, as I told her was the case, that I don't keep them in their original packaging, but instead, in a especially designed wallet. Well back home and in more reflective mood, and knowing that I was to be admitted on the following day, (for two lots of surgery on the same day), I decided that regardless of my point of view, I would bring them with me, only to forget when the time came..
Well, what was profoundly stupid, on my part, was my failure to see the obvious: the situation from the hospital's point of view, as the reason why they were asking for my medications in their original containers, wasn't so that they could see what they looked like, but rather, so as to be able to dispense them to me from the securely locked medicines cabinet.. Silly! silly! me!
Now another experience that I must share with you, about this pre operative assessment, is, that while there, I had thoughts about death row. As the nurse went carefully through the list of questions so as to determine my general state of health, I couldn't help thinking that if I was on death row and they were looking for an excuse not to give me a lethal injection, they wouldn't find it; because in relation to the questions being asked, (and allowing for the fact that I had a stent fitted into an artery in my heart in 2006), I was simply far too healthy. And after I had been subjected to the handiwork of two surgeons, and was lying in my hospital bed, I had a more profound thought. Looking at the curtain in front of me, that had been drawn around my bed, (leaf patterned and in pastel shades of green and yellow), I found myself reflecting on the fact that I would not want this to be my last view of the world. And I was reminded of something that I had heard in a radio broadcast many years ago. It was of a young man who, at the point of death, asked the hospice staff to carry him out into the garden, where he died, close to nature, and in the warmth of the sun.
And now I am sitting here feeling sorry for myself, with my computer set to large print, as I cannot wear my reading glasses, and unable for the time being at least, to go for my long walk each day. So by my standards, I am having to learn to be idle, and to be satisfied with things as they are.. You see, I have lost an eyebrow, have a large patch and stitches on my forehead, and a very ugly and askew bandage on my nose; and I have stitches through and behind my ear, from where cartilage has been transplanted to my nose. In time the stitches will dissolve, and my nose regain its shape, and by some miracle of modern surgical technique, my eyebrow will be restored, which is a roundabout way of saying that it is only a matter of time! until I am restored to my handsome self.
Now continuing on this hospital theme; there was a time when I thought that I had a high pain threshold, an illusion shattered, when, some years ago, I went for a bladder examination. Thankfully, (and as I suggested to the doctor at the time), there were no issues: but the tears were rolling down my cheeks while the probe was in use. And this time, when the needle carrying the local anesthetic was injected deep into my nose by the surgeon, the pain far outweighed any desire on my part, to be heroic. And if you think that a burka is a restricted form of dress, let me tell you that it has nothing on the garb in which I was clad during the Mohs surgery. Fully conscious, and with people rattling cutlery around my head, the only part of my anatomy exposed to view, was my nose. And apart from the cutlery, there was a sound-effect that perplexed me until I worked out what it was. It was the type of sound that you get when liquid is flowing from a pan on to a hot stove. It was of course a gentle suction pump that was following the course of the surgeons knife.
So why was I there? And what is Mohs surgery.?.And what of the plastic surgery, under general anesthetic that I had later that day?
For quite some time I had been aware of a small nodule on the tip of my nose, between the nostrils, that was new, and its shape struck me as odd; but as someone who has been known to fight his way into trees with one hand while dragging a saw in the other, it seemed not unreasonable to conclude, that somewhere along the way I had acquired a wound that had healed untidily. Not only was there no pain, but a stranger would have been hard pressed to notice that anything was wrong. But what finally persuaded me to visit my GP, (doctor), was the very occasional speck of blood that appeared when I blew my nose;. And when biopsies were taken, it was confirmed that I had what is known as a Basal Cell Carcinoma. A (BCC) is a slow growing, and non life threatening cancer, that if left untreated, results in the breakdown of tissue, and in my own case, if neglected, would have resulted in significant damage, if not to the actual loss of my nose.
Now we have a saying, "needs must," and this was the point at which I was made aware of Mohs surgery: an intricate and painstaking process designed to keep the disfigurement from surgery to a minimum. Having determined the likely boundary of the cancerous cells, and going slightly beyond them, the surgeon removes the tissue, and by a process of mapping, dying, and freezing, prepares it for the laboratory. The idea in going beyond the boundary of the cancerous cells, is, of course, to ensure that all the cancer, (including the caner roots), have been removed. But in truth, it is not an exact science, which is why, after waiting two hours for the laboratory results to come through, the patient might require a second, third, or even fourth incision to be made, before the all clear is given. And this is the point at which the mapping is important, for it guides the surgeon to where these remaining cancer cells are located, and keeps the areas of additional incisions to a minimum.
Well l was the first of three on that morning's list, and as we sat waiting for the lab to come back with their findings, we kept each other company. We exchanged notes on the instructions that we were given in respect of fasting before the operations, with myself explaining how, before midnight, I had managed to have today's breakfast, yesterday. We talked about our respective pasts, about children, and dare I say it, politics, and about whatever else readily came to mind. But with the two hour deadline past, and my dreading the prospect of another incision, and yet another two hour wait for the results, you can imagine my relief when the nurse appearing at the door told me that Dr Garioch had been advised that all the cancer cells had been removed. "Good", that imaginary voice in my head said, "they have got it early, and you will be home in time for tea." But, when she next appeared and invited me out into the corridor, I had a feeling of foreboding, and rightly so, for she had come to tell me that Dr Moncrieff, wanted a word.
Now as someone who is frequently looking beyond the immediate, and though I know him to be personable, on this occasion I had a sense of Dr Moncrieff as a man in a hurry: someone who was wholly mentally engaged on the tasks in hand. So with my back to the wall, (or so it seemed), I knew that it fell to me, at this decisive moment, to remember everything that I was now being told: that as Dr Garioch had had to cut in to the cartilage on my nose, reconstruction surgery would be necessary, and with cartilage transferred from from my ear. And that I would remain in hospital for several days, until the persistent bleeding associated with this type of surgery had stopped. And no less important was his closing remark, that if in the future I was in any way unhappy about the outcome, that was something that we could discuss.
Well I was lying there gazing at the ceiling and waiting to feel relaxed, as the anesthetist said I would, when I woke up in the recovery room, with a nurse asking how I was, while she pulled a warm thermal blanket around my shoulders. As out of nowhere I was wide awake, and thinking, every house should have one - a thermal blanket.
As for hospitals more generally, I have long had the view that no one should want to go there, and that if they must, it should be for as short a time as possible. And I am just as disregarding of the media, who, when the political climate is right, refer to nurses as "Angels". As I lay there, I was reminded of how they are just like us, women, and in many instances men, who are making their way against the ups and downs of life. Some, without doubt, are passionate lovers, while others despise their spouse or their partner, or break into a cold sweat when they realize how little money is in the bank, or are too afraid to think too much about their children; as to whether or not they might be going off the rails. But there was a sense in which I admired them greatly, and considered them special, for their life's work requires them to care for people when they are at their most vulnerable. And I wrestled with the dichotomy: the personal care and attention to detail, as applied to the patients around me, as compared to the absolute disregard of human worth, and need, in so many parts of the world. And while there, I did something that I would never do at home.
On my second day and when I was almost, but not quite restored to health, and the trolley shop was passing, I asked Jenny to get me three bars of chocolate, the sort of stuff that I would never eat at home. But as I explained to her, and later to Leo and Lynsey, I wanted them, "because the nurse's didn't love me any more;" a mischievous way of saying that I was so improved that I felt like a fly on the wall, while the nurses, understandably, were giving their time and attention to people whose needs were real. And that's a thing about hospitals; just as things can go quickly from bad to worse, or dare I say it, alarming, the converse is also true, as I observed in a patient more advanced in years than myself. On my first night there, and permanently on oxygen, he kept all of us awake as he endured extreme pain when needing to urinate. On the second night and in "the wee small hours," I was lying there and marveling at the transformation: with all five wards seemingly sleeping like babies, when the buzzer in my own ward sounded. It was my friend from across the way, and in the distance I could hear the light steps of the nurse as she came towards him. Notwithstanding his torments from the night before, and having wakened from a restful sleep, what he wanted was not oxygen, painkillers, or even to use the toilet, but rather, (and without anxiety,) to know where he was. - And I was smiling.
Irrespective of your point of view, that is, as to whether or not you are religious, today, for me, belongs to St. Valentine, though if you are not religious, no harm is done by your calling it, Valentines Day.
As for the day belonging to lovers and would be lovers, rather than to a third century Christian saint and martyr, it seems that it was Geoffrey Chaucer, author of The Canterbury Tales,,Troilus and Criseyde, and other great works, who set the ball rolling in that particular directions, with, The Parlement of Foulys; a poem that has lost some of its charm, since in contemporary English, it is known as, The Parliament of Birds. And the scholars tell us, that it was "probably" written in 1383, so as to be ready for St. Valentine's Day.
Now as this poem runs to 21 pages, and it has never been my intention to discuss it in detail, you will have to be content with a flavour of what it was that Chaucer achieved, all those centuries ago, in, The Parlement of Foulys. And a part of what makes this piece fascinating, is, that in its characterisations it is mischievously contemporary.
At the outset, and before the Parliament of Birds has assembled, Chaucer, whoa has been reading, is in reflective mood:
So short is life, so long to learn its art!
So hard the trial, so keen our least success! Our perilous joys, so swift to leave the heart! All this I link with Love, and I confess Myself astounded by his artfulness, Which brings such pain that when I pause and think, I'm hardly certain whether I float or sink. For though I know not Love in every deed, Nor how he pays the folk who've earned their hire, It happens that in books I often read About his miracles and cruel ire, And resolution to be Lord and Sire: And since his blows are fierce, "God save that Lord!" Is all I dare say - not another word.
Then with the Parliament Of Birds assembled, (as was the custom on St. Valentine's Day), and according to rank as determined by nature, Nature herself, presiding, presents "a fornel eagle, quite the loveliest", as natures greatest achievement; and that in turn, prompts a succession of eagle suitors, in descending order of rank, to declare their undying love, and promise of fidelity. But soon there is uproar among the assembled birds, who, anxious to find their own mate, tire of this public pasturing:
So loudly through the air the bird-calls flew To be set free - "Have done, and let us go!" I thought the forest would have burst in two. "Come on!" they cried, "You'll bring us all to woe! This curst debate must stop! When will it so? How can a judge without a sign of proof Resolve the case on my bird's behoof?" Then cried the goose, the duck, the cuckoo too "Kek-kek!" Quack quack! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" so high - That with the din my ears were riddled through. "All this," the goose said, "isn't worth a fly! I've got a thorough cure for it, have I.: Whoever's pleased or cross, my vote I cast For water-birds, and do it loud and fast."
But as you would expect in a parliament, the tensions subside; and order is restored; with each of the species selecting one of their own to address the Parliament, a task, which some of them accomplish, with wisdom, and wit.
As told, the story is a dream, with Chaucer having fallen asleep while reading tales of romance, a story that ends when he awakes, and as he tells us, carries on reading.
_______________ And just as interesting, though for different reasons, is the idea of St. Valentine's Day belonging to one particular Valentine. There are in fact, 14 of them, three of whom were martyred at Rome, and two of them on this date, February the 14th.
We are in the third century, at a time when the persecution of Christians, wherever they were to be found in the Roman Empire, was a common occurrence. And there was no shortage of cruel methods, by which, they were put to death. Some, for sport were pitted against wild beasts, while others were crucified, or thrown into pits of lime, or burned at the stake, or lowered into vats of hot oil. And some, quite literally, were roasted alive on grids. And what perplexed the Roman rulers as much as the lives of these early Christians, was their willingness to die for Christ, rather than accept the alternative, which was to worship the gods that the Romans worshipped, and live. What they, the Romans feared, was what they could not understand, a way of life that was diametrically opposed to the brutal methods by which the Romans exercised power.
Stepping back in time, into the second century, when Pliny was appointed magistrate, in Bythnia-Pontus, by the Emperor Trajan, Pliny was surprised and alarmed by the number of Christians that he found there, And having questioned some, and put others to death, for their obstinacy: their refused to worship the Emperor, or offer wine to the Roman gods, he wrote to Trajan asking for advice as to how to deal with them, because according to his informants, the Christian way of life, could not br considered a threat to the imperial power. To Trajan he wrote: - "This the information told me was the whole of their crime or mistake, that they were accustomed to assemble on a stated day before dawn, and to say together a hymn, to Christ as a god, and to bind themselves by an oath, [sacramento] (not to any crime, but to the contrary) to keep from theft, robbery, adultery, breach of promise, and appropriating deposits.After this they used to separate, and then meet again for a meal, which was social and harmless. However, they left that off, after my edict about their meeting." _______________ And something else that gives significance to St. Valentine's Day, is, that it is my birthday; and this year, (despite a youthful premonition that I would die young), I am celebrating three score years and ten. And when, a few days ago, a card arrived bearing a rather large 70, I found myself gazing at it in near disbelief, and thinking, - numbers don't mean what they used to. And something else has arrived. that I had not foreseen or planned for. In a weeks time I will be visiting the Norwich & Norfolk University Hospital, to discuss with a surgeon, her suggestion that I should have Mohs surgery on my nose, the idea being, to remove "a non life threatening cancer." As I understand it, Mohs surgery is a painstaking procedure, that requires an hour of waiting, each time a portion of tissue is removed for analysis. And it is painstaking also, so as to do as little damage as possible, to what are described as "sensitive" areas, (by which I think they mean, those areas of the body where disfigurement from surgery would be visible. And by this method, if necessary, they will keep removing tissue and analysing it, until all traces of the cancer have gone.
The Parliament of Birds Taken from Love Visions by Geoffrey Chaucer Translation by Brian Stone Publisher: Penguin Classics (1983)
Pliny quotation taken from An Essay In Aid of A Grammar Of Assent Author: John Henry Newman Publisher: Elibron Classics ISBN 1-4021-3523-8 www.elibron.com Do Not Worry The Gospel of Matthew 6. 25-32 Luke 12. 22-31 Gospel quotation Matthew 625-34
