Chaos Theory Explained

According to Chaos Theory the butterfly effect is an assumption that if a butterfly somewhere far away flutters its wings then the air turbulence it creates, no matter how small, will move a little more air, and that little air will in turn move more air, and more and more that eventually, several weeks later, a hurricane will develop somewhere else far away.

Can you imagine that? A flap of a butterfly’s wings creates a hurricane weeks later?

 

Actually, I have seen Chaos Theory happen in reality as I’ll explain right now.

This happened several years ago in Scotland on a New Year’s Eve. I had been invited by a friend to his large house to celebrate Hogmanay with his family and friends. There we were, about fifty people or so, all gathered in his back garden waiting for the midnight hour to start our outdoor celebrations.

Most of the guests were in traditional costumes and I, to oblige and be polite, agreed to wear a kilt provided me by my host.

It's really a little strange wearing a kilt. I often wondered how it feels like wearing a skirt or dress; never having done so myself. Women can wear such clothes so elegantly - but men?

As I'd never worn a kilt either I'll admit I felt a little ill at ease with this swinging piece of cloth around me and "open-air" underneath. It was somewhat cold that New Year's eve in Scotland and also a bit draughty and chilly in Southern regions if you know what I mean.


As I was the guest of honour, or so my host had said, I was aked to stand high on a make-shift stage and at the appropriate hour of midnight to give the countdown so that the celebrations might begin.

The guests were in an area in front of the stage chatting politely to each other, and I was on the makeshift rostrum next to the band consisting of about a dozen pipers and drummers all in costume ready to greet the Noo Year! I was so self conscious and worried that a sudden gust of wind might blow the kilt embarrassingly up.

Suddenly, a lone moth, or similar such like insect, flew up my kilt. The darkness beneath me must have confused the poor insect which fluttered aimlessly tickling all it could. Immediately, and as a reflex action to what lay beneath, I started hopping from foot to foot as the confused moth tried in vain to find its way round in total kilt-induced obscurity.

The band leader thought I was doing a modern hitherto unknown highland jig and, thinking this was my signal, he got the band of bagpipes and drums to start playing.

At this point, someone else lit the bonfire in the garden which immediately rose to ten feet flames lighting the whole place.

This prompted another person to start the fireworks display which lit the sky in numerous colors and resounding bangs all over the neighborhood.

The guests cheered and applauded my dance and then all held hands and started singing Auld Lang Syne at the top of their voices around the fire.

All this commotion brought out my friends' neighbours from next door into their back garden. There were about twenty of them; family and guests.

“What are you playing at Henderson?” shouted MacTavish the neighbour. “It isn’t midnight yet. We’re at least seven minutes away man …”

“Of course we’re not!” my friend Henderson shouted back, “our guest of honor gave the signal; so we must be right on time. Your clocks must be slow!”

“And it's typical of ye to ruin Hogmanae pal. For a start ye’ve no reason for ye and y'er guests to dress up in our national costume and have bagpipes and drums playin' … ye’re not even Scottish! None of ye!” retorted MacTavish getting a little angry.

“Of course I am Scottish," Henderson shouted back as the music stopped, "my great great grand mother from Sidney was originally from Dundee, I’ll have you know!”

"I bet she was exported or deported to Australia for reasons best known to herself. Ye’re no more a Scot than a kangaroo is. Ye’re even having a barbecue on Hogmanay… now you can’t get more Australian than that. A barbecue on New Year’s Eve!” MacTavish came back with obvious laughter from his guests on his side of the garden fence who cheered with delight.

“I’m Scottish enough to give you a Glasgow kiss old man …” shouted Henderson approaching the dividing wall between the two gardens.

“Leave ma husband alone” interrupted Mrs MacTavish, moving forward to defend her husband, “och aye ... ye’re Australian all right; and like all Australians you want to celebrate the New Year before every one else.”

At this, for some unknown reason, perhaps to engender some international peace and harmony, the band-leader decided to get the pipers and drummers to play Waltzing Matilda and all of Henderson’s guests started dancing round the bonfire and singing the Australian National Anthem.

“There ye have it …Waltzing Matilda …” shouted MacTavish drowned by his two Scottish terriers barking at Henderson’s shepherd dog, “ye’re Australians … the lot of you!”

“And you’ve made us miss the New Year countdown …” added Mrs MacTavish, “it’s ten minutes past midnight at least; and we haven’t done first-footing.”

At this point, whilst Henderson's guests were still singing Waltzing Matilda, his neighbours from the other side of his house came out into their own back garden accompanied by their friends.

Believe it or not, they were Greeks.

“Happy New Year to you all,” shouted Stavros obviously the worst for wear with drink, “does anyone want a cup of Ouzo?”

Some of Henderson’s guests stopped dancing and went towards Stavros.

“We also have stuffed vine leaves plenty … and youvarlakia with avgolemono and baklava too. Plenty … plenty! Is very good." continued Stavros as his wife Marika brought out a large dish laden with food.

Moments later, two police cars arrived, no doubt called by some other neighbours, and four policemen entered Henderson’s back garden.

“We’ve had reports of a disturbance” said one of the cops.

“Of course it’s a disturbance … it’s the New Year. What do you expect? Get a drink down your neck officer,” replied Henderson offering the police sergeant a bottle of whisky.

“I think you should keep the noise down, Sir!” said the policeman turning down the drink.

“Sarge … you can’t get them to celebrate quietly. Not tonight surely?” asked the second officer. "Is it OK if I have a drink with them?"

“Take a baklava with you also!” shouted Stavros from his side of the fence as the police left, “or a Greek kalamata olive. It is the best!”

The shouting, singing and music continued through the night as the MacTavish’s and the Stavros’s joined the Henderson’s in their back garden and celebrated the New Year international style with Greek food and haggis and black buns.

I never got to find out where that moth ended! Must have flown away by a sudden gust of Southerly wind.

Jeremy - R.I.P.

Solemn occasions are meant to be just that … solemn.

Well, at least that is the intention, although at times events conspire to turn things differently.

As happened at Neighbour Jeremy’s funeral.

Jeremy was generally a good neighbour. I liked him well. Always polite, wishing me “Good morning” when we met on our way to work, or “Good evening” should we happen to see each other on our way home.

He kept himself to himself and never parked in front of my driveway blocking me from going in or out whenever I wished.

Every so often Jeremy would borrow some of my garden tools, or other bits and pieces he required, but he always returned them cleaned and in pristine condition.

Anyway, like all funerals, Jeremy’s was certainly a solemn occasion.

Relatives and friends and neighbours gathered in church and then followed him to the graveside. There were tears aplenty as we all remembered him and in our own way knew that we would miss him.

Although I’m no relative of Jeremy, at the graveside I was one of those who stood near the gaping hole as he was lowered down; purely because I had taken with me in my car one of his relatives who had no transport of her own. This elderly lady stood next to me on my left; and on my right was another neighbour, Julia, a young lady, who also had no transport and had come with me.

I noticed whilst the priest was saying his final prayers that Julia on my right was somewhat tearful and had nothing to wipe her eyes with. Being the gentleman whom I am, I put my hand in my right side pocket and pulled out, fortunately for me, a brand new handkerchief which I handed to her.

As I did so … dash it all … my car key had got into one of the folds of the handkerchief and fell to the ground, on the grass, without making a sound, and then … dash it all once again … it rolled into the open grave just as the coffin was being lowered.

No one noticed except Julia on my right. She took my handkerchief and asked: “What was that?”

“My car key …” I mumbled quietly.

She burst out laughing and then stifled her laughter with the handkerchief, pretending to be emotionally distraught and unable to control herself. Her outer appearance to one and all was one of utter despair and total grief; yet I knew from the shaking of her shoulders, and her breasts bobbing up and down, that she had great difficulty controlling the hilarity engendered by my predicament.

One or two mourners raised their eyebrows and wondered why this young lady was portraying more grief at his demise than Jeremy’s own wife standing nearby. But let’s not feed suspicious minds when my own is doing backward somersaults trying to figure out what to do next.

Almost instinctively, I placed my arm round Julia's shoulders and ushered her away from the graveside. As I did so, I accidentally bumped into the frail old lady on my left and almost knocked her into the grave with Jeremy. Luckily, she fell backwards away from the hole and was caught by some mourners before she slid down with Jeremy.

Julia and I walked away from the crowd and stood a distance away by some trees. She continued laughing out of control but mercifully not loud enough to raise any suspicions.

What could I do in this situation? I could hardly let Jeremy borrow my car when I knew sure well that he had no intention of returning it?

If I did nothing, how could I possibly get home, and what would I say to the frail old lady expecting a lift back in my car?

I noticed the grave-diggers sitting some distance away ready to complete their work once everyone had gone.

I left Julia still laughing away by the trees and walked towards the grave-diggers to explain the situation.

When all the solemnities were over and done, I arranged for someone else to give the two ladies a lift home; and explained that I had some urgent business to deal with at work.

The grave-diggers brought Jeremy back up and retrieved my key; and for once, Jeremy did not get to borrow anything of mine!

P.S.

One should always have dignity in death.

I attended a clown’s funeral once and he was lying there peacefully in his open coffin with a red nose and a big smile painted on his face. They couldn’t put the lid on because of his big feet! 

 

What a funeral that was. His circus colleagues had turned up dressed like clowns or with their circus costumes. Someone had surreptitiously placed some whoopee cushions on the pews which proved great fun when people sat down. The baby elephant was kept outside the church but he accidentally stepped on the verger's foot. 

The hearse would not start and back-fired several times. Every so often it would play a circus fanfare music. The doors fell off and the steering wheel came off in the driver's hands. The dirver's seat was automatically raised and lowered on springs every now and then.

At the graveside, every time they lowered the coffin into the ground it came up again on springs.

Great fun was had by all.

 

MORE HUMOUROUS STORIES HERE

 

Is God Superman?

Let us consider for a moment our relationship with God. Let's start with our prayer life.

How do we view God?

As an omnipotent, ever loving, always forgiving, spiritual heavenly Father and Creator of all things?

Or do we see Him as a Superman ever ready to fly to all crises wherever they happen in the world?

When we pray to God, is our prayer an ever ending list of requests asking Him to be with and care for a number of people we know and love? To be with sick and dying relatives, family or friends who have lost a job, or who are in some difficulty or other, the poor, the elderly, the destitute and many others in need.

There's nothing wrong with praying for others. It shows a generosity of spirit and caring on our part. Prayer is the greatest gift we can give or receive from someone.

God loves it when we pray for others. It shows Him that we are not selfish and closed to others' needs.

But is our prayer just a set of demands to an ever ready Superman willing and able to circumnavigate the globe and go to the aid of anyone we pray for?

And when we pray, is it just an exercise of bringing to mind various causes and needs; or do we really and genuinely believe there will be a response? A positive one to the prayer we have made.

Let us be honest now. Really honest with ourselves. Just between you and God. No one needs to know your answer.

When you pray, are you 100% sure that God is listening?

Are you 100% sure that He will respond positively to what you are asking for?

Or is there the slightest, tiniest, weeniest little bit of doubt in your mind about God's response?

"Therefore I tell you, whatever you ask for in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours." Mark 11:24

What did Jesus mean when He said this?

Did He mean it?

If not, why did He say it?

Do YOU believe it?

Is it reflected in YOUR prayers?

Would you go to borrow a lawnmower or other thing from your neighbour if you knew he would say "No"?  Would you go to the bank for a loan if you thought they would turn you down? Would you ask a friend for a favour if you believed he'd refuse?

Then why treat God with suspicion? Why pray believing that He would not respond?

Imagine a different kind of prayer ...

What if you said, "God I am frightened. There are so many things I need to pray about. So many people in need of your help. The sick, the dying, the poor and so many others. I don't even know where to start!"

What do you think God would reply?

Jesus always greeted people with the words, "Peace be with you!"

What He meant was, "Relax. Calm down. All will be well. Trust Me."

If only we approached prayers with that kind of attitude. With that kind of belief. With that kind of trust. That come what may, God is listening. And in His time, and in His way, He will answer our prayers.

It is no point having Faith in a Master who walks on water if we do not trust Him enough to follow Him.

Small Talk

You know what it's like. You get invited to a party, especially at this time of year with Christmas and the New Year celebrations, and you meet a lot of people ... some you know already ... and some you've never met before ... and you wish you'd never met them anyway.

And you all stand there with something to eat in your plate ... and a glass of wine in the other hand ... and you don't know whether to eat or drink because you do not have a third hand with which to do either ... and you pretend to be interested in the other person as you make small talk with people who approach you and encroach your private space and ... I hate it ... I hate it ... I hate it.

I just do not like small talk. Whether it is to break the ice when I meet someone for the first time, or just to be pleasant and pretend to have something to say when in fact I have nothing to say at all.

Or when you approach me and what you have to say may be of interest to you but only succeeds in sending me to sleep which would be unfortunate since I am now holding a plate of food in one hand and a drink in the other which I would like to enjoy; and if I fell asleep suddenly I would drop both to the floor and attract even more unwanted attention than the one I am having with you right now.

The other day at a party I was happily minding my own business and being totally unsociable as is my nature when I was approached by a man I had not met for some time and to be honest I could not remember his name, nor where I first met him, nor the circumstances through which we knew each other.

Immediately my brain started working fast to remember his name or where I knew him from. Was he a business connection, I wonder? An old client perhaps? Or did I know him from church? Did I meet him at the golf club maybe, or does he work at the library perhaps? Where did I ever get to know him and what is his name?

He, however, seemed to know me very well and started with "Hello ... long time no see ..."

(Doesn't it annoy you when the other person knows you so well and you do not have the faintest idea who he is?)

Anyway, he smiled and said, "Hello ... long time no see ..."

"Lucky me!" I thought, "just go away!"

Fortunately, he could not hear my unwelcoming thoughts, so he went on: "How are you keeping these days?" he continued and then proceeded in discussing various members of my family, "how is ... these days? and is ... still at school? ... and how is your mom-in-law doing? ... and do you still work in London?"

"Who is this tediously boring man?" I thought, who seems to know so much about me, and I can't mention or remember anything about him or his family, if he has got one. Where have I ever had the misfortune of meeting him before?

Then came the small talk.

"Where do you work in London? Regent Park? ... oh yes ... I have a friend there called Marjorie Smith ... do you know her? Or is it Regent Street? Can't remember. Either of the two! She has three children; a boy and two girls. Although I'd imagine they're grown up now. She used to work near London Zoo. Do you know it? Of course you do ... everyone knows London Zoo. I went there last when they had the baby gorilla ... do you remember the baby gorilla?"

I hate small inane talk that leads to nowhere. And this man was expert at it.

Let's analyse the nonsense he just said:

For a start, London is very large and happens to have more people living there than the whole of Scotland;

Smith happens to be one of the most common names in the UK;

and Regent Street and Regent Park are two completely different places;

how am I supposed to know this Marjorie Smith when I don't even know who you are?

And I do wish I was in the company of a baby gorilla right now. He would certainly be more entertaining than you prattling on.

And I can't be bothered listening to this man and his boring small-talk conversation any longer, and isn't life better when you are miserable and totally without prejudice since you dislike everyone equally?

Sometimes though, small talk can be pleasant ... I suppose ...

At another party I was approached by a wonderfully beautiful woman I know well. She was wearing the most tight fitting dress a hundred sizes too small. The pretty black number was as short as I can still remember, and it had a décolleté so low she might as well not have been wearing one!!!

For some reason, she immediately caught my attention, and kept it caught for as long as she stood there beside me. She was the kind of woman whom every man would want to be talking to; and yet, there she was talking just to me.

She was holding a plate of chocolate cake which she teasingly played with with her fork and every so often she placed the tiniest morsel on her lips whilst making small-talk which certainly concentrated my attention at the time; although I can't now remember one word she said. My mind and eyes were elsewhere as I recall.

Anyway, as she was placing a piece of cake on her lips, she accidentally dropped a crumb on her breast and did not notice it. As she continued talking that tiny crumb seemed to come to life and slowly made its way one little step at a time down her breast.

 

Now what is the party etiquette in such circumstances of small-talk? Does one point at her breast and say there's a piece of cake there? Or does one pick it up with one's fingers? Or with a spoon perhaps, to avoid touching her? Or does one ignore it altogether and watch it make its way down and hide inside her dress?

I tried to make small talk and look her in the eye, but somehow this proved too difficult as my gaze kept going South. She eventually noticed my distraction and looking down her breast she picked up the tiny crumb before it disappeared out of sight. She laughed heartily and asked me what I would have done if it had gone down her dress. "I would have warmed the spoon first," was my quick reply.

So as you can gather, I hate small-talk and mingling at parties. I think when we meet someone we should go immediately to straight talking like, "What do you think of this country's Gross Domestic Product compared to that of other European countries?" or "What would you do if reincarnation actually exists and you came back as yourself? Or a mosquito perhaps?" or "Do you ever re-cycle old jokes to entertain people or do you re-cycle yourself and send everyone to sleep?"

Those kind of straight questions, totally devoid of small-talk, would soon get any party going.

Personally, when I meet a woman at a party I often say, "That's a lovely pair of shoes you are wearing!" Especially if I am lying flat on the floor drunk at the time.

What sort of small talk do you use at parties?

Let us laugh ...

OK ... I thought I'd start with a couple of religious joke; because these days of political correctness there are so many jokes one cannot tell.

So how about a harmless joke about chickens instead. 

A man runs to the doctor and says, "Doctor, you've got to help me. My wife thinks she's a chicken!"

The doctor asks, "How long has she had this condition?"

"Two years," says the man.

"Then why did it take you so long to come and see me?" asked the shrink.

The man shrugs his shoulders and replies, "We needed the eggs."

Ooops ... this might upset some ladies. 

Let's try a religious joke about a chicken instead ...

A preacher goes to a farmer to buy a chicken.

"This is a Christian chicken," the farmer says eager for a sale.

"How so?" asks the preacher.

"Do you see those strings attached to its legs? When you pull the right one, she sings Amazing Grace, and when you pull on the left she sings the Hallelujah Chorus."

"Wonderful!" says the preacher, "but what happens if you pull both strings?"

"I fall off my perch, you stupid fool!" screeched the chicken.

Of course, you can tell this joke about a parrot if you wish; speaking of which ...

A carpet layer had just finished installing a carpet for a lady. He stepped out for a smoke, only to realize he'd lost his cigarettes. In the middle of the room, under the carpet, was a bump.

''No sense pulling up the entire floor for one pack of smokes,'' he said to himself. He proceeded to get out his hammer and flattened the hump.

As he was cleaning up, the lady came in. ''Here,'' she said, handling him his pack of cigarettes. ''I found them in the hallway. Now, if only I could find my parrot.''

Ouch ... that was cruel; and hardly in the party spirit. I like parties, don't you. Especially at this time of year. At a party last night one of the guests had a few too many and half-drunk he approached the host, Mr Ivor Rowbottom and asked him, "Tell me my good man ... do lemons have feathers do you think?

Ivor was astounded at this and said, "Of course not ... why do you ask?"

The drunk replies, "In that case I have squeezed your canary in my drink!"

All right ... I can hear you say no more cruel animal or bird jokes. Do you prefer short jokes? Quick jokes that may make you smile? 

One day, a man came home and was greeted by his wife dressed in a very sexy negligent. That's a nightie made in Britain. "Command me," she purred, "and you can do anything you want." So he told her to shut up and went golfing.

Oooh ... that's a bit risqué don't you think? I like golf. Many people do. Do you? 

Unfortunately, may playing golf has proved a bit of an issue at home. The other day, Christmas eve it was. It was all quiet and peaceful at about 11:30 at night when suddenly my wife started screaming "Golf ... Golf ... Golf ... That's all you speak about. That's all you do. Golf ... Always golf!" Can you imagine her shouting like that so late on Christmas eve?

I tell you. It was totally out of the blue, and I was startled out of my life. I never expected to see her on the golf course at that time of night. I was practising quietly and there she was. Shouting at the top of her voice. She put me off my game.

Marriages can be difficult and hard you know. You have to work at marriage every day if it is to succeed. Ideally, marriage is a relationship in which one person is always right, and the other is the husband. The best marriages are when one partner is slightly deaf. Also, you must choose your partner well before you marry. The best partners are archaeologists; because the older you get the more interested they are in you.

Being a Catholic I sometimes tell jokes about priests, confession and other Catholic subjects. For some reason our priest never appreciates them. For example ... when I was young, my parents had two identical parrots. They did not know which was the male and which the female. Dad was told to look in on them at night and check who was doing what to whom and this was the male; and then to put a white collar round his neck to identify him.

The following day the priest visited us and the male parrot screeched, "So they caught you at it too?"

For some reason, my priest did not like this joke when I said it at the Christmas party the other day. No sense of humour, our priest!

Did you know that there are more Catholic Churches in Las Vegas than casinos. Inevitably, some worshippers on Sundays give casino chips when the basket is passed round for collection instead of cash. The churches deal with this by collecting all the chips from the different casinos and sending them to a nearby monastery for sorting and then taken to the casino of origin to be cashed in. This job is done by chip monks.

Somehow the Catholics are often associated with playing Bingo. I used to be a Bingo caller at our church. I used to shout the numbers in Latin so only the Catholics win.

What do you call a sleep-walking bishop? A roaming Catholic.

A farmer goes to his priest and asks if he would conduct a funeral for his dead sheepdog. Obviously the priest refuses. The farmer is distraught and asks, "Tell me Father ... do you think if I go to the Anglican church down the road the vicar there would do the funeral for £100?"

The priest replies, "Wait a minute my good man ... you did not tell me the dog was Catholic!" 

I remember as a young man going to confession; it was such a long time ago. I told the priest that a young lady and I had been amorous and we were not married. It was a mortal carnal sin, I believe.

The priest was shocked out of his cassock.

"That is terrible," he said, "terrible ... terrible is the word for it. Tell me, was it with Eileen from the butcher's shop?"

"No ..." I replied.

"In that case ... was it with Sophie from the baker's down the road?" he asked again.

"No Father ... it was not her," I said hesitantly.

"Or was it with Doris who works at the candlestick maker?" he persisted.

In fact it was not with any of the young girls he mentioned but he gave me some good leads in that confession.

Keep smiling my friends. God bless.

Coffee In Heaven

Father Ignatius had received a request from Bishop’s House to accommodate Father Ferdinand at St Vincent Parish House for a few days.

The French priest was visiting from France to attend a Conference at Bishop’s House, but as there was no accommodation for him there it was decided to house him at St Vincent, where he was Parish priest many years ago before Father Ignatius, and for him to travel daily to the Conference from there.

On the appointed day Father Ferdinand arrived and was greeted by Father Ignatius whom he had never met.

The two men spent some time getting acquainted with each other before settling down to a sumptuous evening meal prepared by Mrs Davenport, the housekeeper.

At the end of the meal the French priest complimented Mrs Davenport on her culinary skills.

“That was marvelous Madame,” he said, “perhaps you should come with me to Tours in France where you can be my chef in our Parish!”

“What is that?” asked Mrs Davenport not understanding the man’s distinct French accent, “you want me to do the Tour de France? You expect me to cycle at my age?”

“Non … non … Madame,” continued the priest, “I said Tours in France. It is a City in Central France where my Parish is situated. I am known jokingly there as Le Curé de Tours … as in the book by Balzac!”

“Balzac?” asked the housekeeper as she left the room with a tray full of empty plates and cutlery, “I’ve never heard of him. But then I don’t know much about French cyclists!”

Father Ignatius smiled and said nothing, knowing full well that to have a conversation with Mrs Davenport is sometimes like speaking to a being from outer space.

“Eh bien …” continued Father Ferdinand, “how is the state of affairs in your little corner of God’s Kingdom on earth?”

“Generally things are getting along fine …” replied Father Ignatius, “most people are struggling in a small northern town where the economic crisis has had most effect. Poverty and desolation are widespread but people are coping as well as they can, with the help of God!”

“At least God is still with you …” said the French visitor, “even in this cold and damp place which I remember all too well from my days here! It has always been poor as I remember. Poor in wealth but rich in Spirit! I really liked my time here Ignatius. I regret having to return to France and handing over this bit of Heaven to you!”

Father Ignatius smiled and said nothing. He’d never heard his town described as a bit of Heaven before.

“You see …” the French priest went on, “there is in France a trend, a modern movement if you like, where it is fashionable to reconsider one’s beliefs in an Almighty Deity.

“It is now trendy, enlightened even, to say that God does not exist. He is either a figment of one’s imagination … or an invention created by man to soothe and protect himself from adversity, or even to control lesser educated fellow humans.

“We often see famous figures writing in the press or speaking on radio and TV about the non-existence of God.

“It is bad enough in itself Ignatius. But these people encourage others to follow in their beliefs. It’s as if the devil himself has visited our affluent towns and cities and he is on a recruitment drive.”

The French priest stopped and sipped a little coffee.

“That is sad …” commented Father Ignatius quietly.

“It is a crisis in every respect …” the French man responded, “the Church, in France and elsewhere in Europe I suspect, seems helpless in this situation …

“Sermons on Sundays and Church teachings have been toned down … mustn’t frighten the horses you see … as you English say!

“Talk of the devil and hell from the pulpit is greeted with ridicule and derision.

“But he exists all right. Ignatius. I’ve seen him often in my town … He is certainly winning over many souls at the moment with his fine convincing arguments on the media and the temptations he puts in our way to lure people to his way of thinking!”

Father Ferdinand stopped again as he put his cup of coffee down.

“I pray daily Ignatius,” he went on, “that this trend does not spread throughout Europe and beyond. But I fear that as wealth increases throughout nations and their populations the devil advances in its wake!”

“In that case the devil may never come here …” joked Father Ignatius, “this town has always been very poor … so much so that even the church mice are on a starvation diet!”

Father Ferdinand smiled as Father Ignatius went on, “In Christ’s death and Resurrection we know that God has conquered evil.

“He knows full well those who believe in Him and love Him. Whether we do this with full intellectual knowledge; or just with humble, simple humility and understanding.

“And the Lord knows full well those who stand against Him in defiance, and worse still, encourage others to do the same!”

The two men were interrupted by Mrs Davenport entering the room with another pot of hot coffee.

Father Ferdinand looked up and said, “Madame … you are one of God’s treasures here on earth. One day the Good Lord will be most pleased to have you serve coffee in Heaven!”

“I don’t know what you mean …” she said as she gathered more empty plates on her tray, “Do they have coffee in Heaven? What do you think Father Ignatius?”

Theodore's Mince

It was just after Christmas day when Theodore Luxton-Joyce called on Father Ignatius at the Parish House to return a book he had borrowed. The priest was not at home so Mrs Davenport, the housekeeper, invited Theodore for a cup of tea and a slice or two of her best Dundee cake in the kitchen whilst she was preparing the day’s meal.

“I say this is a decent piece of cake … what?” exclaimed Theodore, “better than any I have ever tasted … did you make it yourself Mrs D?”

“Of course …” she said with a smile big enough to brighten up a cold and grey winter day.

“Then you’ll have to give the recipe to our cook,” replied Theodore helping himself to another slice of cake, “then perhaps we’d have a decent slice of cake more often … what?

“I’ve often said to my dear wife Rose, if you were not the housekeeper here I’d have you in charge of the kitchen up at the mansion in no time … But I suppose the poor Padre deserves a decent meal every now and then, don't you know … and it’s a good thing you’re here to look after him!”

Mrs Davenport was now glowing with pride as she brought Theodore a plate full of her latest batch of mince pies which she had just made.

“I’ve made these too …” she said rather coyly.

“By Jove … you’re a marvel Mrs D … have you made the mince meat too?”

“But of course,” she replied very pleased with herself, “I use a secret recipe my grandmother gave our family. I mix together raisins, currants, sultanas, orange and lemon peel, honey, sugar and spices, a little salt, suet to hold it all together, and to give it a little crunchiness I add crushed walnuts, almonds, hazelnuts and pecans … and for extra taste I put a generous measure of whisky AND brandy! Not many people do that!”

"Jolly decent spot of mince this ... I must say ... by Jove," he mumbled under his breath. 

At this very point Father Ignatius came into the kitchen.

“Ah … Mrs Davenport’s famous mince pies …” he exclaimed as he picked one from the plate. “Better than any you can buy at the finest establishments in London or anywhere else. Royalty doesn’t know what it’s missing, Theodore!

“Mrs Davenport makes her own mince meat, you know. A secret recipe she’ll reveal to no one … Even the Bishop remarked the other day on the excellence of these pies!

“Which reminds me … I have to visit the Bishop today. I’ll be going in about an hour or so … I have some paper work to deal with first. Could I take two jars of your mince meat for the Bishop Mrs Davenport?”

And with that, the priest picked another pie and went up to his office.

Mrs Davenport’s warm prideful glow turned into an ashen gray as if she was at death’s door, as she sat down on a nearby chair.

“What is the matter?” asked Theodore, “you suddenly look as if you’ve seen a ghost … what!”

“If only I had, Mr Joyce,” she lamented, “it’s worse than that. I’ve no jars of mince meat left. I made twenty five two days ago and some went in the pies whilst others were given away …”

“Calamity indeed …” exclaimed Theodore … “but all may not be lost … what? Is this the jar you use?” he asked picking up an open jar of mince meat.

“Yes … it’s an ordinary jar. Then I make my own labels with the words ‘Mrs Davenport’s Mince Meat’ and I stick them on the jars.”

“All is not lost indeed …” cried Theodore as he stood up suddenly knocking the chair over as he did so, “you make two more labels Mrs D … I’ll be back presently.”

Before she had time to ask him he’d rushed out of the kitchen as fast as he could and promptly ran as quickly as his old legs could manage, avoiding slipping in the thick snow, and went to the grocery shop across the road.

Moments later he returned to the kitchen with two of the best quality mince meat jars that money can buy.

“Not up to the standard of your recipe …” he declared, “I’ll soon have these labels off by soaking the jars in some water … then we can put your labels on!”

“But … but, that’s cheating …” she hesitated.

“Cheating … what? Of course not! Would you have the poor old Padre heartbroken as he drove gift-less to the Bishop? The wise men brought with them great gifts all those years ago … and our Padre will take to the Bishop something no less valuable. Not as good as your original, mind you! But he’ll never know!

“And the Bishop … well, he lives from day to day pining for a spoonful of your mince meat to spread on his hot tea cakes and muffins.

“So you’d be doing two men of the cloth a great favor … think of all the days off Purgatory that would buy you!”

Before Mrs Davenport could protest some more, Theodore’s enthusiasm had the old labels off the two bought jars of mince and Mrs D’s labels stuck on.

He was drying out the jars carefully of any smudges of glue when Father Ignatius came in the kitchen with briefcase in hand. 

“Ah … you’ve got me your mince meat” he said placing the jars in his case carefully, “thank you Mrs Davenport … the Bishop will be delighted I’m sure … you’re a Saint!”

Theodore waited until he heard the priest drive off and then he beamed “Did you hear that Mrs D … the Bishop will be delighted … you’re a Saint!”

He chuckled to himself as he drove off to his mansion on the hill.

A few days later Father Ignatius took Theodore aside after Mass on Sunday.

“Have you anything to confess?” he asked him gently.

“Ehm … no Padre! I’m far too busy to sin … what!”

“Something about two jars of mince meat, perhaps?”

“Oh … she told you!”

“The poor lady was beside herself with guilt,” explained the priest, “she told me as soon as I returned from the Bishop’s.

“You implicated me in your deceit knowing full well she did not make those two jars!”

“Not the jars … what! I doubt Mrs D is any good at glass-making …” said Theodore feebly.

“You know full well what I mean,” continued Father Ignatius, “you leave me no choice but to absolve you of your well-meaning sin and for your penance I suggest you apologize to Mrs Davenport.”

“I’ll do better than that …” declared Theodore, “I’ll buy her a huge box of chocolates … women forgive you easier with chocolates … what!”

He jumped in his car as he left a smiling Father Ignatius waving him goodbye.

MORE THEODORE LUXTON-JOYCE STORIES HERE 

Add caption

Special Prayers

My blogging friend Mevely has asked me to share with you some videos which I have made because I feel the lyrics to the songs are in effect a prayer. I am pleased and honoured to post these videos here as my Christmas present to you.

Wishing a Blessed Christmas to you all. Enjoy ... and please pray for me.

MIKE DENVER 

THE NEW SEEKERS

BREAD

THE SEEKERS

DON WILLIAMS

A Guinea Christmas

A couple of days ago I was invited at my boss's house out in the country for "a little bite to eat and a festive drink", as he called it.

He lives in one of those big mansions that posh people have, you know, just like the one where Theodore Luxton-Joyce lives.

He had invited a number of people from work as well as a few of his friends and golf-playing pals and a number of people from his gentleman's club. It was mainly a stand-up affair where everyone stands in this large room mingling and talking whilst a multitude of waitresses come round offering you hors d'oeuvres, canapes and small little bites you would not give your dog; and a number of waiters offer you various drinks, mainly alcoholic rather than a good pint of lemonade, or a cup of tea.

Anyway, I had been invited and it was not the kind of invitation you would turn down. More a three-line whip as they say in political circles. 

As it happens, just before I set off from my office I got a phone call: "Could you pick up Bertie the guinea pig from the vet please? ... Please ... Pretty please ... We'll be ever so grateful for the rest of the year ... All twenty or so days that are left ... Please!!!"

Why can't they pick up their own stupid pets? Anyway, at the vets the nurse said that Bertie was still a little sleepy from the anaesthetic and will be so for the rest of the day. Have I got his little carrying cage?

Have I heck? I said yes and took the little creature and put him in my brief case to keep him warm.

At the party, whilst everyone was mingling and being ever so polite and upper-class, don't you know, what? Jolly good old chap. And all that. Someone noticed my sleeping Bertie walk along the wall. He must have woken up and got out of my case when I went to fetch the Marketing Report for my boss and forgot to close the case again. 

Now normally, any sane person would have said there's a guinea pig about.

Just point at the creature and say: "By Jove, there's a most magnificent specimen of the guinea pig variety, don't you know ... what?" Now isn't that something you have often said at parties?

But NOOOO. On this occasion some idiot from the golf club said: "There's a rat here, a damn big rat!"

"A rat?"

"Yes ... a rat!"

"Where?"

"Over there!"

"Where over there?"

"It was there. He's now gone over there I think ..."

"A big fat ugly rat ..."

"It's now ran over there ... look out ... he might bite!"

"Rats carry the platonic plague, you know ..."

"Yes, it's in their teeth. One bite and you're a gonna!"

"I don't want it to tear my 15 Denier nylon stockings ..."

"Don't be silly, man. Why are you wearing nylon stockings anyway?"

"Because I couldn't buy nylon tights to fit me!"

"Over there ... I've seen the rat over there ... it's big and furry ..."

Pretty soon there was pandemonium in that room. My boss's wife was mortified as well as mummified at the thought of having rodents in her house. 

"We don't have rats in this house, have we Luis?" she asked her husband.

"No ... there's quite a few at work though ..." he replied referring to his employees.

Everyone was running here there and everywhere in no particular direction trying to avoid and escape a non-existent rat who happened to be my sleeping Bertie taking a walk. 

Women, including the waitresses in their mini skirts, suddenly jumped on top of chairs, sofas, armchairs or whatever furniture of height, like the table at the end of the room, and held their skirts and dresses up high showing off their un-mentionables.

What is it with you ladies? What is the point of standing on a chair with your skirt held up high? Do you think the rat, or any other creature, would climb up your legs? The very sight of you screaming would most probably send him to apoplexy. 

I noticed there was even a wimp of a man standing on a chair and holding tight to a young waitress. On second thoughts, maybe he was taking advantage of the situation.

The butler came in with an assistant and tried to find the rat and kill it with a heavy shovel in his hand.

Luckily, I noticed Bertie cowering in the corner just by the grand-father clock. I quickly bent down, picked him up and put him in my trouser pocket. The stupid animal thanked me for saving him from certain death by biting my finger. He then proceeded to tumble and somersault in my pocket in a most embarrassing display which I wouldn't want you to imagine right now!!!

Luckily, no one saw him or his acrobatics in my trouser pocket. And the rat was not found or seen ever again.

The party continued in a most subdued manner, and I noticed no one was eating the hors d'oeuvres.

Silent Night

I hope to go out Carol singing this year to raise money for charity.

Here's a short recording of me practising at home singing 
Silent Night 
and other hymns.

Christmas Gifts

If we are honest, we would all admit that at one time or another we have re-cycled Christmas and other gifts given to us which we do not want. We take away the wrapping paper, put on a new one and give the gift to a relative or friend who would appreciate them more than us.

I know that I have done so in the past. The odd video DVD, or book which I do not want or like, or indeed the bottle of drink which I will not use. They have all found their way to someone else and saved me having to buy them presents.

I doubt though that anyone has ever had reason to sell unwanted presents. I never did ... until now.

I say until now because I have received two Christmas presents which quite honestly I cannot bring myself to re-cycle by giving them to anyone else. I know no one will appreciate them.

So the next best thing is to sell them.

And this is where you come in. Do you perchance wish to buy either of these items and how much would you be willing to pay?

The first item is ...

... an anchor.

It arrived a few days ago, delivered by two postmen who had great difficulty getting it out of the van and to our front door. It was already wrapped in Christmas paper and at first I thought it was a crossbow. But it seemed too big and very heavy to be such. So heavy that the postmen had to drag it along the road rather than lift it.

When we took the wrapping off we discovered, to our dismay, what it actually was. It's a Christmas gift from an eccentric uncle. The note read that he changed the anchor in his yacht and he wondered whether we would like this one as an ornament in our front garden. 

We live some million miles from any sea ... so an anchor as an ornament outside the house would be appropriate, don't you think?  

Do you want to buy it? Offers in the comments box please.

The second item I have for sale is also an un-wanted gift which arrived the day after the anchor was delivered.

It is ...

... a crane.

Yes ... a crane. I got out of the house Saturday morning and there it was. Fully erected and standing proud in our front garden.

Who ever put it there must have worked fast during the night to put it up together like a Mecano set. The neighbours said they saw three big lorries parked outside with a lot of iron bits and pieces and in about a couple of hours the people put up the crane in our garden. The neighbours thought we were perhaps building an apartment above our house; or maybe putting up a statue of myself.

With the crane was a note in an envelope from a lunatic aunt of ours, (not on my side of the family). The note said, "I saw this on the Internet and thought of you!"

What sort of demented person would see a picture of a crane on the Internet and think of buying it for me? What is the connection between a huge yellow crane and me? I don't even like the colour yellow.

I phoned her and ever so politely asked her if she lost her marbles. Whether perhaps she was a few sandwiches short of a picnic. Whether her little grey cells had perhaps committed suicide.

She said she saw the small photo on the Internet, (like the one above), and thought it was a toy. So she bought it for me. She had received the invoice for a ludicrous sum of money which she thought was too much for a toy and she took the matter up with her solicitor.

So, in case the suppliers don't take the crane back, do you want to buy it? You'll have to collect it yourself.

Christmas at Theodore's

It had been a busy year for Theodore Luxton-Joyce, the lovable eccentric millionaire businessman, and he hadn’t been in touch with Father Ignatius for some time. So it was a surprise for  the priest when the phone rang early on Boxing Day, the day just after Christmas, and he heard the familiar voice.

“Is that yourself Padre? What?” asked Theodore in his well pronounced posh English accent.

“Yes … it is. Merry Christmas Theodore to you and your lovely wife Rose …”

“Yes quite … jolly good … don't you know?” interrupted Theodore, “I was somewhat concerned at getting that other French priest on the phone. You know the one … you’ve had him visiting lately …”

“Yes … Father Gaston. He has gone back to Paris”.

"And a good thing too, I should say … what? Never liked the French … Father Gaston being an exception of course … he was rather quiet and said very little … just as I like the French to be … what?”

Father Ignatius smiled and said nothing whilst Theodore continued totally unaware of what he was saying.

“Right … now that I’ve got you on the phone rather than that French fellow, I need you urgently to help me out! Terrible spot of bother … old boy … terrible I say!”

The priest frowned fearing the worst. “What’s happened?” he asked.

“Well … Rose and I had arranged a quiet after Christmas get-together for this evening and we’d invited the Mortimers … you know them? He’s a businessman working in the US most of the time. Very nice fellow and his wife too. Jolly pleasant both! No of course not, you don’t know the Mortimers. I've never introduced you to them.

"Have you ever been to America Padre? I’m sure the Vatican has opened a few Branches over there. Nice place America; I've visited often. America that is. Not the Catholic outlets over there.

“Anyway … as I was saying ... back to the Mortimers. They’re over here right now for a few days … visiting family … that sort of thing. Rose and I thought we’d invite them for a spot of dinner this evening. Disaster old boy! Disaster I tell you!”

Father Ignatius smiled again.

“Well, as it happens …” continued Theodore never stopping to pause for breath, “the Mortimers can’t make it tonight. Jolly bad show don’t you think? We’ve got most of the food prepared and all … well, Mrs Frosdick, the cook, and her staff have everything prepared anyway. And the Mortimers can’t make it for dinner. They’re stuck up North because of the terrible snow storms we’ve been having over Christmas. Totally snowed in and cut off from civilization and a decent drop of whisky I shouldn’t wonder! Terrible being without whisky at Christmas; or at any other time, I'd say!

“So I thought of inviting the Hendersons … now I’m sure you know them Padre. They live about a mile or so from us, just up the hill. I thought I’d introduced them to you some time ago. Not Catholics you know … but decent people all the same. Better than many Catholics I know, I should say! Anyway … dash it all … they’ve decided to spend Boxing Day with the in-laws. Now what kind of nonsense is that? I tell you. Who’d wish to spend Boxing Day with the in-laws? It’s just like being in Purgatory I imagine … what?”

Father Ignatius smiled once more at Theodore’s continuous rant and wondered what all this was leading to … and then it came.

 “Well Padre … as neither of them can make it tonight, I thought of you. Would you care to join us for a quiet spot of dinner this evening? We’re having a goose and Brussels sprouts you know … traditional fare for this time of year sprouts … and I’ll be playing the latest musical instrument I’ve mastered … the harmonica … much less stressful than the bagpipes. I can now play Chopin’s piano concerto on the harmonica as well as the pipes! Do you like sprouts Padre? They give me wind you know ... quite useful for playing the harmonica I suppose ... we'll have roast parsnips too!”

The priest was amused at being the third choice as guest at the millionaire’s luxurious mansion in the country, but he knew that Theodore meant no malice by it.

“It’s so nice of you to think of me …” he said quietly, “but I’m afraid I’ll have to decline too. The problem is that this evening St Vincent’s Church hosts the annual Christmas Dinner and get-together for the old folks of the Parish. We bring them to the Church Center and Father Donald and I and a few of the nuns from the Convent prepare a Christmas meal …”

“Bring them along too …” interrupted Theodore with no hesitation, “we’ll make a party of it … we’ve plenty of room over here …”

Father Ignatius knew that there was little point resisting Theodore’s generosity and enthusiasm; so plans were hurriedly changed to reschedule the venue of the Parish Christmas Dinner to the mansion on the hill.

And so it was that about fifty people including the nuns from the Convent went to the millionaire’s house to enjoy Theodore’s and his wife’s genuine kindness. They all gathered in the grand dining room, which had been festively decorated at short notice, where they enjoyed the best food and drinks sumptuously prepared by the catering staff.

Theodore dressed up like Father Christmas to give each guest a gift and then he entertained them with a sing-along which featured him playing his repertoire of the classics re-arranged for the harmonica!

The following morning, Theodore Luxton-Joyce as eccentric as ever jumped into his car, despite the heavy Christmas snow making most roads impassable, and sped towards St Vincent Church.

Half an hour later he was in Father Ignatius’ office, having barged through Mrs Davenport, the housekeeper who opened the front door, mumbling about some emergency or other.

“Padre … we have a problem …” he exclaimed to the astounded priest sitting behind the desk, “I tried to phone you this morning but you were permanently engaged … I thought you were probably hearing some late Confessions on the phone from sinners who couldn’t make it to church because of the snow! Anyway … here I am. Got in the car and came over as quick as I could!”

“Sit down … take a deep breath. What is the problem?” asked Father Ignatius fearing the worst.

“I was in the library this morning … You know, the room annexed to the dining room where we had the old folk’s Christmas Dinner last night?”

The priest nodded.

“Well … just by the section where we have the books of Sir Walter Scott. You must have read him Padre! Scottish novelist, playwright and poet … you know … Ivanhoe, Rob Roy, The Heart of Midlothian and so on …

“Anyway … just by those books I found this beautiful gold necklace on the floor … what? Looks pretty expensive to me … must belong to one of the old ladies you invited to our Christmas party! Must have dropped it when they all went to the library for a spot of Darjeeling. The poor lady, whoever she is, must be beside herself having lost such a valuable piece … I’d say!”

Father Ignatius took the necklace from Theodore and said, “I’ll keep it in case someone phones and asks for it!”

“I’ll hear none of it …” interrupted Theodore, “the poor lady who lost it must be looking everywhere for it … under her bed … or behind the piano … or wherever old ladies hide their jewellery! We must get in touch with them all and ask them if they’ve lost this necklace!”

Father Ignatius looked up in disbelief. “There were about fifty old people there … most of them women … you’re not suggesting …”

Theodore was suggesting just that! And for the next hour or so they phoned most of the old ladies to find the owner of the necklace; with no success.

“Well that’s all of them … except these six who are not on the phone,” remarked the priest, “I’ll ask them when I next see them at Mass on Sunday!”

But Theodore’s concern would have none of it.

"I have the car out there …” he said, “why don’t we visit them right now? I also have a bottle of brandy in the car to keep us warm … always prepared what?”

Father Ignatius said a silent prayer in his mind seeking forgiveness for what he thought about Theodore right now. Then as a self-imposed penance he decided to accompany the eccentric millionaire on what would no doubt turn out to be a wild goose chase.

And a waste of time it certainly was. At every house Theodore insisted on accepting the invitation for tea and biscuits, or mince pies, or home made cake or whatever other delicacy the old ladies had prepared for Christmas. And at every house he regaled them all with stories about Sir Walter Scott and other Scottish writers and famous people, not forgetting to mention time and again his Highlands lineage and the fact that he could play Chopin’s piano concerto on the bagpipes!

“Where does he put all this tea?” thought the weary priest to himself, “and he hasn’t been to the toilet once!”

Eventually they returned to Father Ignatius’ office at the Parish House both very cold, dejected and exhausted.

“You don’t think we can have a drop of tea to keep us warm?” asked Theodore to Mrs Davenport as she came in to collect the empty cups from this morning.

Father Ignatius held the gold necklace in his hand and admired it pensively.

“You don’t think it belongs to one of the nuns who came to the party?” asked Theodore rather stupidly, “do nuns wear necklaces under their habits Padre?”

The priest smiled and shook his head. “It’s a beautiful necklace with a lovely little rose here in the middle …” he said, “You don’t suppose it belongs to your wife … Rose?”

“Dash it all …” cried out Theodore standing up from his seat, “I forgot all about Rose! That little flower on the necklace should have reminded me …

“I bought that necklace six months ago for Rose’s birthday in January. I hid it in Sir Walter Scott’s book Rob Roy, which I was reading at the time. I thought no one would find it there … no one ever reads the books in that library … what? The necklace must have fallen out yesterday when someone picked up the books.

“I’d forgotten all about it … and for the past three weeks I’ve been wondering what to buy Rose for her birthday next month. I got her a bracelet … I know that for sure … the thing is I don’t know where I’ve hidden it …old boy!”

Father Ignatius sought forgiveness from the Lord once again for what was going through his mind.

He gave the necklace back to Theodore and followed his enthusiastic rush to the car and waived him goodbye as he sped back to his mansion on the hill.

More stories about Theodore HERE