Lotus Eaters

Wondering down London Road I pass Via Devana.  Seventy percent of Roman roads are still in use. I hear tramping feet and international accents.  This is Leicester after all, centre of the universe.  My mind wanders to tunnels in Norway.  It took an occupying force to build may hundreds of kilometers through the mountains.  The residents couldn't be bothered with such a thing.  Who would pay?  Not keen on the neighbours in the other side anyway.  Too much effort; too much rock.   It took the necessities of war; to get armaments to the Arctic coastline.  Apart from being quite useful afterwards, like being made to tidy your bedroom, the Norwegians, and anyone one who put a foot wrong, had done the hard work.

At the Marques of Wellington I turn right into Highfield Street.  Was this the Marques who gave all his soldiers a lump of money when they were discharged from service?  Many bought pubs and honoured their chief of staff. But he was a duke?  I walk past Christopher Scottneys.  Smart suits face the street. A beggar offers me one pound.  "I've got lot's of these" he says.  I walk past restaurants; Moroccan, Pakistani, Spanish, Indian (I like the name - Chai-patti), and past the Somali Madrassa, opposite the Synagogue.  It was until recently the Jewish community centre. 

I'm early for the church music practice.  As is our tradition, with spare time, we collect the autumnal litter on the church steps.

Standing outside and looking up, I think of Leonie's book by Roy Strong, 'A little History of the English Country Church.'  From the church porch, many saints look down.  From their niches, they pray for the people.  The saints of this town, pray for us, as they said they would in the bible.  Saints, hard at work.  (My church has a name sign that appears to be missing  '.com'.)  The people assemble and march together into the hallowed interior.  They are in heaven, the holy of holys.  For a brief moment all pain is gone.  Sit back and relax.  Be washed in the blood.  Sounds like angels; mouths opened in awe; one with Basil and Cyril.  After absolution, remember only heaven is forever.  The priest, hands placed together in prayer, leads the celebrants, choir and finally people down the aisle, though to the door, out of the porch, and into the churchyard.  We consider our mortality.  Back now we go; to hard work, scolding each other, and drinking too much.  But with a bit of heaven in our stomachs, and the promise of a bit more next week.

My church is so different.  But the people chose us.  They welcomed was like marriage.  A welcome of  true sacrifice.  Their faith was real.  You can't choose your family.  'Just accept my aunt's taste in decor.'  Complaints achieve nothing.  "Turn that music down will you?!"  As with all teenagers, it is turned down, just for now.