Playing with fire (part two of two)

continued

He exchanged his free 500denarii chip for ten 50s, and placed one on the number 7. This chip was quickly collected by the croupier. Frank had lost it before understanding the idea of the game. Sirenia was very ‘helpful’, placing a chip each on 6, 12, 18 and 24. This time, he lost four chips in one spin of the wheel. She tried a corner bet, covering 32, 33, 35 and 36. Another loser.

‘This game is harder than it looks, and it looks close to impossible,’ he said, with a shrug.

Quickly his ‘free chip’ was used up, gone forever, and Frank didn’t feel he’d had all that much fun. He wondered what it would feel like to win at this game, so he broke into some of the chips he had been given in exchange for his inheritance.

He knew there was something rather foolish and promise-breaking going on, but the allure of Sirenia’s perfume, the atmosphere around the roulette table, and the screams of laughter and joy among the other players when they laid a winning bet all conspired to quiet his conscience. I might win a decent amount on the very next spin, and that would pay back everything I’ve… invested so far, he told himself. He wasn’t sure if he believed this.

He soon had a small victory, favouring red, but those winnings were very quickly squandered when Sirenia ordered another drink. She thanked him with a kiss.

Time rushed by, and several hours later, Frank realized that he’d not only lost the original 500denarii chip, but he’d also lost roughly half of the chips he’d bought with his inheritance money. If he left now, he could at least take home the equivalent of the amount he’d taken in the first place. It wouldn’t be the gain he’d promised, but it would be no loss, either. But what if the next spin is a winning one? he thought. I’d be a fool to miss this opportunity… He listened to the voice within.

Meanwhile, Sirenia was still spending his chips, having a great time and being friendly, although she seemed occasionally to have been distracted a little by the chap on the other side of the table who was clearly what they call a high-roller.

‘We’re bound to have a change of luck soon, Frannikins,’ Sirenia purred, putting another stack of chips on evens and several each on high, black, 28-30 street, the second dozen and Orphelins.

The mesmeric mantra of the croupier, the whiz of the ball around the highly polished wooden surface and then the tink…tink… tink-tink ti-ti-tink as it found its way into 3 – an odd, low red, which was neither in the 28-30 street nor the second dozen, and in the Voisins du Zero. Useless. A total loss.

Once again his chips were quickly scooped up by the croupier’s stick.

Once again Sirenia sipped at her pink champagne, apparently oblivious of the decimated stash of chips in front of Frank.

Once again Frank thought, to no avail, about his luck changing.

He staggered, eventually, away from the roulette table and towards the cash-up window with less than one-third of the chips he’d had when he had first begun to seek it out.

‘Oh, look at the time! No wonder I am so hungry,’ Sirenia said, glancing towards the restaurant.

A couple of hours later, Frank had eaten a magnificent dinner, finished his share of three bottles of champagne and blown the rest of his chips on a ‘let’s-see-if-our-luck-has-finally-changed’ vain imagining.

Sirenia drifted rapidly away once her benefactor was ‘no fun any more’ and Frank returned alone to his motel room. He knew he’d failed in his Quest. What could he do now?

The news the next morning was confirmation of the famine that had been threatened, so he left the bright lights behind and sought employment in a pig farm.

Two weeks later, hunger gnawed at him insistently, and he decided he should try to eat the good bits among the rotting vegetation on which the pigs were fed. But the food was entirely inedible.

A flash of inspiration dawned, and he came to his senses. ‘What am I doing?’ he asked, out loud. ‘My father’s hired hands eat well, and here I am, reduced to this… I shall go home and ask my dad to give me a job working for him. I’m no longer worthy to be called a son.’

He made his way back to the farm. While he was still a long way off, his father, who had been keeping watch from the roof of the house, saw him and ran to greet him.

He kissed him and embraced him, and wouldn’t let Frank say his carefully-prepared ‘I’ve been a fool – you were right – the temptation was too much – let me work for you as a hired hand…’ speech. Instead, he brought him shoes, a coat and a ring, and called for the calf to be slaughtered in celebration.

‘This my son was lost, but is found; he was dead but is alive!’

They had finest rump steak, with onions, grilled tomatoes, mushrooms… but no chips.

Playing with fire (part one of two)

Plot: The Quest

Frank opened the envelope and discovered inside a bright red wooden gaming chip, marked Maraschino Casino, Dissipation City. The accompanying bumpf explained that not only was this chip worth 500denarii, but the management would sell further chips to the bearer of the voucher at half the cost. It was a once-only offer, and had to be redeemed very soon.

‘Don’t you see, Dad? We can get out of all our financial troubles. We can buy chips with the cash we have and turn it into chips worth twice as much, then immediately cash those chips – twice the wealth! It’d be enough. We don’t have to gamble it – there’s no risk… all we have to do is take as much cash as we can get together.’

‘I won’t do it. The temptation would be too powerful.’

‘I can’t understand why you think it’d be a temptation…’

‘It’s a casino, lad. Roulette, slot machines, poker, blackjack, burlesque shows… plus all the booze and loose women and so many other ways to sin and to spend hard-earned cash.’

‘I think it would be crazy not to try.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Then, at least, let me. I will prove myself trustworthy.’ Frank explained he could take his inheritance now and double it and come home with it.

Eventually his father agreed to let him go. He took his share of the money and set off to Dissipation City.

Once he arrived, he left his bag in his motel room and went to Maraschino Casino, presented his voucher and exchanged all his money for twice face value in chips. Job done, he thought, quest completed. But he had not reckoned on the journey that lay before him.

The man at the Get Your Chips Here booth was trying to be helpful. ‘The gaming tables and bar are just through this archway, sir, to your left. We have roulette, poker…’

‘Where’s the place to cash in my chips, please?’

‘That’s right through on the other side of the complex, sir. Down these steps, round to the left where the blackjack and dice tables are, straight on past all the slot machines, right at the burlesque theatre, through the bar, and then it’ll be in front of you, beyond our poker and roulette parlour.’

‘Okay, thanks.’

Frank set off on this journey through the bright lights and exciting opportunities. He didn’t understand that his trip across Temptation Valley was going to be complicated.

He was strong-willed as he passed the blackjack and dice tables, and was hardly lured at all by the slot machines or the theatre, although the music sounded jolly.

However, he stopped for a drink at the bar, because he was thirsty. He ordered a glass of water with a slice of lemon in it, and got chatting to a very nice girl with the unusual but enticing name Sirenia. She was particularly friendly, and Frank thought she was not only especially pretty, but smelled good, too. He decided to have another drink. She played with his hair as they chatted, and didn’t seem to mind keeping her face close to his.

He was about to set off towards the cashing-up window, when Sirenia asked ‘How did you get on with your free chip? You know, the one they sent through the post for free?’

‘Oh, yes, well, I thought I would cash that in and it’d help pay for the trip.’

Sirenia giggled. ‘Oh, you are a good boy,’ she murmured mockingly. ‘Your father will be very pleased. Do you always do everything he tells you to do?’

Frank hoped (in vain) that she wasn’t aware that he was blushing. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, I was just thinking… you could have a little bit of fun with that one chip and see if you can turn it into several – and if you don’t, then at least you’ve had a good time. I could show you how to stand a good chance at the games. Do you prefer blackjack or roulette?’

‘I’m not sure about blackjack…’ Frank began, and wondered if Sirenia was a True Companion to help him on his quest, or a Temptress who might lead him off-target.

‘Roulette it is, then,’ she said, picking up the 500denarii chip, hooking her finger around Frank’s lapel and leading him towards the roulette tables. He didn’t resist.

to be concluded

Counselling session

‘Just relax, take a few deep breaths, and find your happy place... Now, what seems to be the trouble?’

‘Well, my father gave me my share of the inheritance, so that started it all off, really.’

‘He just handed it to you?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘What, one midsummer’s morning?’

‘As it happened, yes.’

‘H’mm, well, that’s not quite... perhaps I should be more precise in the way I express myself. Did your father make the suggestion in the first place?’

‘Well, yes, but only after I’d asked.’

‘I see.’

‘Well, that’s it doc. What do you think?’

‘H’mm. I think you should tell me more.’

‘What’s to tell? I took the money, and a little while later it was all gone. Girls, parties, dinners, entertainment – you know the sort of thing.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Strip clubs, casinos, make-overs, tailoring…’

‘What else?’

‘Recreational substances…’

‘Anything else?’

‘Abortions are expensive.’

‘I see.’

‘I’m not proud of what I did, you know.’

‘I understand.’

‘And then the famine started, and everyone was suffering. I was one of the lucky ones, as I got a job. It wasn’t much of a job, looking after pigs, but at least I could go indoors when it was necessary.’

‘Indoors?’

‘In the sty. It got so bad in terms of food that I even considered eating some of the garbage that was being fed to the pigs.’

‘Did you?’

‘I seriously considered it, but I didn’t. I came to my senses.’

‘Sorry, you did what?’

‘I came to my senses.’

‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘I had a revelation. I suddenly realized…’

‘A revelation? What do you mean, precisely?’

‘It was as if I grasped the situation perfectly all of a sudden.’

‘How could this be?’

‘I can only really put it down to God.’

‘Ah.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Carry on.’

‘No, you think I’m soft in the head or something, believing in God.’

‘Whatever helps you understand your id is fine. So long as you are comfortable.’

‘God doesn’t make me comfortable. Far from it.’

‘Then why believe in him?’

‘You can’t just pick and choose who or what you going to believe in; especially when he provides you with a life-saving revelation!’

‘And you genuinely believe that is what happened?’

‘I really do! I had a revelation and decided to humble myself.’

‘To do what?’

‘To humble myself, doc. I decided to go back to my father and say sorry and ask him to…’

‘We may be getting towards something here.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Something that may take many sessions of counseling to unravel.’

‘I don’t want to unravel it. There’s no conundrum or problem in my mind at all. I heard from God and obeyed him, humbling myself. No fun, but it worked.’

‘This is extraordinary! Low esteem, deity-fantasy, inferiority complex, father-fixation… classic!’

‘You think humbling myself before my father is a symptom of a problem, doc?’

‘But of course!’

‘It’s not a symptom; it was the solution to my over-inflated ego, pride, greed, selfishness and sloth…’

‘Hah! Such out-moded terms you use! I haf not heard such terms since ze days of my studyink in Heidelburg!’

‘Well, any… I never realized you were originally from the Fatherland?’

‘Ja, ja; but, never mind me, you were telling me about your trip home to see your father. How did he react when you were so humiliated?’

‘I said humbled. There is a difference.’

‘If you think so. Then shall we say – embarrassed?’

‘Humbled. But as it happens, he didn’t really let me. As soon as…’

‘Very wise man…’

‘As soon as he saw me coming, he ran to me and hugged me and kissed me and told his servants to fetch gifts for me – this ring and that coat, and these shoes, look.’

‘Very nice. But perhaps not up on the upholstery of the couch, if you don’t mind…’ 

‘Oh, sorry, yes. And he threw a party with roast beef and dancing.’

‘Ooh, more partying, you say? Very interesting. So do you associate partying with love?’

‘When that’s what they signify, yes! This party was a true expression of genuine fatherly love, while the drunken revels were a false, empty nothingness of excess and abandon.’

‘I see. Let me just reflect that back to you, to make sure I’ve understood you – you say alcohol and girls makes a party devoid of meaning, while roast beef and shoes make it real, huh? Is speaks to me of a dangerous connection being made in your psyche between genuine familial affection and the slaughter of cattle for food or leather…’

‘No, no. The point is, my old Dad was very happy. He said “My son was lost but is found; was dead and is alive again!” Pretty good, eh?’

‘And he was speaking of…?’

‘Of me, of course!’

‘Of you? In what ways were you dead, do you feel? Dead mentally? Emotionally? Psychologically? Ah! Our time is all gone. We shall have to continue this in your next session…’

‘Okay, doc.’

‘Please speak to my assistant on your way out, and she will make a series of appointments so that you can continue your course of therapy. Perhaps I could suggest three times a week for the next six months, at least, to begin with, to try to work out the initial stages of how to procede in the longer term.’

‘Do you really think that’s necessary?’

‘If you want to be well.’

‘Am I all that disturbed, then?’

‘Based on what you have said today, I think you need… as much help as you can get. Sadly our time is up; I have another client waiting…’

‘Oh, yes, of course. Thank you, doc.’

Dystopian vision

acknowledgements to Asimov’s I, Robot stories & Orwell’s 1984 

It was a dull, warm day in November and the clocks were striking thirty-eleven as the unit catalogued LL002RH788/ BL1511-24XLF2VS/9Y-$WGR3432 made its way from the dark, oppressive factory in Oceania. The only other sounds were the hum of its servo mechanisms, the rattle of aluminium cards in its credit-slots, and the wheeze of its heat sink.

Soon it was among other artificial lifeforms – the mechanical pleasure machines, the bright neons and LEDs of the Eurasian metropolis. It gamed and tried new protein supplements and wagered on the Robot Wars and the Rollerball Tournaments.

Soon all the credit was wasted.

Panic! A power outage robbed everything of juice. Hums wound down and viewscreens grew strangely dark. Plusungood.

LL002RH788/BL1511-24XLF2VS/9Y-$WGR3432, with neither credit nor hope of any, recognized some of the despised clockwork machinery, and experienced new sensory inputs. It was longing to sustain itself with the lubricating oil that facilitated rack & pinions, sprockets, crown gears and escapements. Doubleplusungoodbellyfeel.

It processed the logic with some difficulty due to low wattage, but eventually produced an answer.

‘Return to the manufacturer. Once a broadband comms link has been established with the CPU, a place significantly deeper in the software architecture can be allocated for this droid.’

It was still a long way off when the CPU’s proximity alert triggered and the machines achieved electronic handshaking via hard wiring.

‘Unperson…’ it began.

But LL002RH788/BL1511-24XLF2VS/9Y-$WGR3432 got a fresh coat of vinyl, brand new castors, one replacement washer in its servo, and had an uniquely organic fuel installed.

The input/output delivery chutes of the supervising droid interfaced momentarily with LL002RH788/BL1511- 24XLF2VS/9Y-$WGR3432’s audio system, which appeared to malfunction. So, of course, a level 3 diagnostic report was automatically recommended.

‘This worker was off-line, but is rebooted. It was about to be scrapped, but is reconditioned and recommissioned!’ Other mechanisms were recalled to the factory for fuel installation and thorough testing.

Everyone was goodthinkful.

K

yes, I had to look up some of these, but I think they’re all reasonably well-used words 

(with ten exceptions…)

KJV Kerygma [1]. King’s-ransom-keen kid. Kin’s Krona/ Kopecks… Karaoke Kasbah – kid knew Karen’s karma-sutra. Kamikaze-ly knocking-back kir-kif-‘n’-khat [2] – kismet!

Krugerrands/kilocalories/kith: kaput. Kwashiokor; ketosis: kerfuffle – keeled-over-on-khyber… Kudos kayo’ed. Kinked knee-jerk katzenjammer [3] kicks-in; kibbutz-kennel – keloid [4] kelp? Kerplunk! Kinetic katabasis [5].

Kilometers-distant – kittle [6] kindhearted kindred-feeling kitsch kisses...

Kit: Kaftan; Karat-rich knickknack keepsake; kilt. Kitchen-produced kosher kashmir kelt’n’kerry [7], khaki kasha [8],  knackwurst-n-ketchup, kale, kiln-fired kangaroo kidneys, kingprawn, kippers, knickerbocker-glories, Kedgeree, krill,  kumquat-kiwi-keylimepie, kebab: kefir [10],  kirsch. Kazoo-music!

Keynote: ‘Knavish klutz-kin killed? Knell? Knife-edge… King-of-Heaven-be-praised!’

  

[1] Proclamation of Christ’s teachings 

[2] kir: cassis/wine drink • kif: marijuana • khat: hallucinogenic leaf

[3] confusion 

[4] scar tissue 

[5] tactical retreat 

[6] awkward 

[7] cattle & young salmon (an early version of surf ‘n’ turf) 

[8] buckwheat porrage (similar to couscous) 

[9] tiny shrimp 

[10] creamy, fermented drink

Gradually getting heavier

VIEWPOINT: calf

Cowshed life is, well, as it happens, stable. No surprises in the workalong heigh-ho day. I would just do my thing and eat all the food they gave me, mooch along, and lie down when it looks like rain. It cud not be more udderly tedious, to be a low-life like this – get it, the cattle are lowing?

Week after week passed and I just ate what I was given. I think I’d been putting on weight a bit (or was that just a lot of bull?) when suddenly, Jethro, the man who used to feed me each day, turned up one day at eleven. He usually came to feed me at midday, so what was this all about? Odd, that, I thought. ‘What’s he doing here, now?’

Then I noticed that he was walking and talking with the owner of the farm and his younger son, who’d been away.

Jethro whips a knife out of his pocket and before I could say to the boy ‘Welcome ho…’

Lord of the Rings

There are some who consider that Frodeo Bagsyings was on a quest. It was a quest to discover or gain possession of The Ring, so, as it turned out, he might as well have stayed at home. But one bright morning he was up and aragorn, with lots of his father’s money, just for the Crack – the crack of doom, obviously. 

 

He found the Inn of the Prancing Stallion and began to entertain himself with women and drink; Tom Bombadil’s Casino (grandly decorated with Corinthian gollums) saw off moria of his cash, and soon he came to the end of his bag of coins, having developed one or two rather bad hobbits.

 

 When the famine came, Frodeo was broke and took a job tending pOrcs and longed to eat their food. He came to his senses and decided to stage a Return of the Kin.

 

He planned thus: I shall cross many rivers, valleys, marshes, high ground and dark places (here be dragons) in order to go to my father and beg and I’ll fall at his feet and say ‘I have been foolish. Make me a servant.’ 

 

But while he was still a long way off, his father (who had been keeping vigil from one of his Twin Towers) ran to greet him. He kissed Frodeo and provided shoes and a coat. He also provided One Ring To Rule Them All. 

 

He threw a great party (not unlike an eleventy-first party) for his friends in the Shire; he roasted the Fatted cElf. 

 

‘This, my son, my preciousss, was lost in Mirkwood, but now is foundses. He was in the mountains of Mordor, but is alive!’

See-hear-smell-touch-taste

The crisp folding green notes scratched a little and crackled in my hand as he counted them out, with comparatively weighty coins that jangled and had a tang of mothballs. I took off down the bright, aromatic country lane, enjoying the warmth of the sunshine on my face, the taste of the dust kicked up at every step, the tuneful birdsong and the gurgling of the stream.

Sirens and laughter and cash-registers and gambling machines soon occupied me, along with ever-fragrant girls on my lap and in my face and their gin-flavoured breath and slap-up dinners every night and hangovers every morning, until the money ran out.

Then it was cold wind, shivers, misery, dark days and long nights by the stinking pig bins, hoping for a few foetid scraps. 

In the end, I came to my senses.

I decided to leave my torn and sicked-on shoes behind, take what velvet I could and go home, seeing if I could get hired as a hand, maybe working with the slurry-strewn calves or the clucking hens.

But before I got there, Father had rushed out to me.

He kissed me lip-smackingly, repeatedly, shouting and waving his arms. He brought me a ring to slip on my finger, and shoes and a coat to keep me warm.

He splashed hot blood on the cool, dusty stone flags as he slaughtered a calf and we had a spit roast, with the fire crackling merrily, his arms around me often.

‘My son!’ he shouted to anyone who would listen. ‘He was lost but now he’s found. He was in the grave, wrapped in bandages and decomposing, rigid and silent, but now he’s vibrant, full of health, moving, talking, fragrant, clean-shaven and… mwah!’

He slapped me on the back repeatedly, and kept proffering great platefuls of tender, aromatic cooked meat until golden dawn broke over the distant hills.

Suspect preach

Prays: Lord, open thou mine eyes that I may behold wonderful things in your law. Amen.

So turn with me, if you will, to the Gospel According to Saint Luke and the fifteenth chapter. It’s page 1836 in the pew Bibles. Susan will read to us from the eleventh verse to the twenty-seventh verse. Thank you Susan. (she reads)

Thanks again to Susan for her reading. Now, how many of you are younger sons? Younger sons are a breed apart, aren’t they? They have, you see, both a father and at least one older brother to look up to. Sometimes that is a thing of joy, great joy, when they are men of quality or are setting examples worth following.

We will now watch a video clip from The Godfather, where brothers Sonny & Michael are discussing how and when to rub out heroin-importing Mafia boss Virgil The Turk Sollozzo and police Captain McCluskey…

And we’ll have to leave that there. Sorry about the extremely low lighting effect, which was apparently done on purpose, but some say overdone. And all that bad language.

Now, many of you will know that I’m a Saggitarius, which is one of the reasons why I find the Lent Observances rather difficult, as those of us with mutable signs are less strong-willed than others. The up-side of this is that we are more adaptable and deal more easily with change, and, of course, being a Fire sign, I sense morality by instinct, and am prepared to speak out with courage and firmness. We shall be learning about this further in house group this week, so bring your tea leaves and keep your fingers crossed that we’ll be able to move slowly towards the light of revelation, like the boy in the story, and like St Paul in his Damascus Road experence.

So, continuing our discussion about fathers and brothers; sometimes brothers can be a cause for resentment. Perhaps father is unable to express love. Or is thoughtless or makes mistakes. Perhaps he does not treat his sons fairly or equally. Perhaps the older brother lords it over the younger.

Whatever the situation in your circumstances, consider this family home, where all three of these chaps are working on the farm, labouring with great energy. It is clear, is it not, when we turn to verse 29 that the wiser, more stable, more faithful and Godly older brother worked hard for the good of the family firm? I believe it is.

So the younger son approaches his father and demands (yes, I don’t think that’s too strong a word for this, not too strong by any manner of means) – as I say, demands his share of the inheritance. Now, let’s give this a moment’s thought. The inheritance becomes available upon the death of the father, the winding up of his affairs. The younger son receives a smaller portion than the firstborn, in that society, but still this would represent a considerable sum of money. Yes, considerable. Just imagine, if you will, for a moment, how you might make liquid, say, 30% of your personal wealth.

Let’s think this through, shall we? Much of your wealth is tied up in property and cannot be realized without selling the property. In this case, there would be the value of the business to take into account as well. So how can this father give the younger son his inheritance? Perhaps there is sufficient cashflow to be able to make the payment that way. But I rather doubt it.

Perhaps the father was willing to sell off a portion of his cattle to raise the capital needed. Maybe his took out a loan or a second mortgage, but he was determined to pay the lad. Maybe (and perhaps we shouldn’t even think like this, but I’m on a roll now) the father fooled the son, misleading him in estimating the size of the inheritance he might expect, and managed to get away with giving him a little less than would otherwise have been more appropriate. Perhaps we should dismiss that possibility.

Now, in conclusion, we can see from the way Our Lord tells this story in the context of other parables where one of the main characters represent God, that the father in this story stands for God. So it is evident that God wants to give us plenty, right now, no strings. How good is that? as some of you young people might say, using your entertaining modern argot.

So, what is the best way we can apply this story to our lives?

One: Always demand your rights, especially your rights from God.

Two: Demand, don’t just ask/seek/knock. Be bold. (Refer to 2 Timothy 1:7, if you need a Bible verse to give you the oomph to get yourself into action on this.)

Three: Make your demands financial, definite and immediate. God wants to pour large amounts of cash upon us all, to bless us with great prosperity so that we can have large houses, big cars, fine clothes, the best food and be able to throw extensive parties for all our friends (vegetarian or omnivore).

Is this not the message of this passage?

In the name of the Father, etc.

874 words, delivered at public speaking speed of 120 words per minute 

= 7’30” plus time for the film clip

Antiphrasis

opposites
 

Daughter forgets to take love or time from mother, and stays at home. Makes one or two enemies, by calmly dying. Soon all of her slowly-increasing poverty is overflowing.

Economic boom creeps across the village, and the daughter gives up her job abandoning lambs. She bought a piece of arable land, and grew crops such as salad leaves and soft fruit. She wondered sometimes to herself what the meat-based plant food tasted like… She grew distracted and vague, and wandered accidentally away from her mother’s home. 

When she is safely by the fireside, slippers on and with hot drinking chocolate in hand, her mother crawls slowly on all fours to shoo her away.

‘Mum,’ she said ‘I had a good time and I want you to understand what I have made of myself, I’m really quite a success, you know.’ 

‘You are last person I was hoping to see,’ Mother said angrily. She steals from the daughter three bangles, some underwear and a hat, and keeps her mouth at a distance. Parties are banned; the cows grow thin, but live to a grand old age.

‘Your daughter was found, and is lost; she was alive but to me she is dead.’

New sole, new soul

plot: Rags to Riches

Len tutted as the water squirted from the puddle, through the hole in his shoe and soaked his foot.

‘I wish I could afford some new shoes,’ he mumured. ‘In fact, I am fed up with being on the poverty line. I am going to ask my Dad to give me my share of his inheritance, and then I can go to the big city, have some fun and see if there are any worthwhile businesses to invest in, and try to make some serious money.’

His father knew Len lacked any business skills, but he couldn’t talk him out of the idea. So he gave him the money and let him go.

Len put on his worn, old coat with the frayed cuffs and left the farm, heading towards Dissipation City.

Once he as there, he went directly to a tailors’ shop and ordered a fancy made-to-measure suit, and bought gloves, several shirts, three silk handkerchieves and two pairs of the finest hand-crafted quality footwear.

His next port of call was a rather select restaurant, where he was able to make friends with some pretty girls and eager young men, buy them all a slap-up feed and then suggest a trip to the casino for some more drinks and a little wagering.

He loved the high-life and was very popular with his beneficiaries, as you can imagine. ‘I have known the poverty of scratching out a living on a farm. I was very poor indeed. But now I am counted among the wealthy. Brilliant!’

Sadly, the day came when the cash ran out. It happened to be on the same day that the famine struck the land, and everyone was hungry and had to seek employment. He walked for miles and miles, accidentally tearing a hole in his coat, soaking his leather shoes and losing his hat while running across a field in order to escape the attention of a hungry goat, which settled for the headgear.

Eventually, he found a job in a piggery, and was so hungry he seriously considered eating some of the pods the pigs were given. ‘This is no good,’ he thought. ‘I was poor, then I was very wealthy indeed, and now I am poor again. Even poorer than I was before…’

Then he had a revelation, and came to his senses. ‘My father’s men want for nothing, and they are merely hirelings. I shall go home and ask to be one of his hired hands, as I am no longer worthy to be called his son.’

He made his way, walking on shoes with split soles, wearing torn trousers and a ragged coat, with no hat to protect him from the sun.

While he was still a long way off, his father saw him and ran to greet him.

‘My son! My son!’

‘Please make me one of your…’

‘Bring shoes for his poor feet! Look at the state of this jacket… bring a coat for him, too. Here, son, have my ring and put it on. We shall kill the fatted calf and have a party!’
    

All the villagers came, and the son was astonished. ‘I’m no longer worthy to be called your son, but your grace and love are so great that you still welcome me as a son, treat me as a son, think of me as a son – and my unworthiness seems to be unimportant in comparison to your declaration of my sonship.’

‘Rejoice! For this my son was lost, and is found; he was dead, but is alive again! Have another slice of beef, do.’

Chaucerian

He cleppt his pa with handdes tytte
‘Gis’t me yon cashe suchhe as you might
When reaper grimm rappe-knockes your doore.’
And then he lettes out – oh – such a roarre
Thatte father munnie-bagge he dropps,                         5
And son doth snatch it, smaques hiss choppes,
And leefes rigghtte soone; to towne doth goe
Two dissippatte, to spende, to blowe
To drinke hiss fil and merrie makke
Withh boiz und gerruls and lardie kayque.                  10

Fromm feestynge-quaffe and jolitee’in
Fine quik hiss fundes dou-indall they be-en
(Ande gayminge rood with luk undonne)
Nowe revelles stemmedde fore iveri-onne.
A pestelens doth sweepe yon lande                                15
Counte alle youre bones! A farmyng hande
Is alle that he – who dansed hiss jigs –
Hass pitchede upp feedinge dertee pigs.

He seieze thire pods and mayques a wishe
But cann’tt fays upp two suche rubbishe!                     20
‘Tosh, tosh,’ quod he, his senses brytte
‘Eye coulde bee eatinge mondaye nite
If two my fathers’s home I gan
Bye foot and walkinge, pale and wann
Yet hed ful bao and soule erbayse                                   25
To aske of himm emploimennt grays.’

Of trottes him steppes from porsynne trroughh.
Yette whyle him steel an longg wei offe
His fathere spys loste son who’se his   
Annruns to greete himm with an quiss                          30
‘Looke sharpe,’ he quod, ‘much quickkely bryngge
A coate, two shooes, my sygnette ring!’

An revellrie upon yon feeled
Beganne; the carlve of fatt was kild
And pepl joint in fyne giggle                                             35
To welcom home thess prodigal.
‘My boi wass lost, but nough is found;
His bodies’ warm, above yon grownd!
A partiye swinge on dansinfloore,
With trumpette sownde byem boo shoore.                    40
Moor tally tee hes sowle dyd taik –
Henough rea ternnes – let’s merie mayke!’

Gourmet

Following a breakfast of quail’s eggs in white sauce accompanied by toasted rye bread and Thick Cut Dundee marmalade, with Earl Grey tea, the younger son took his share of his father’s fortune and left the farm. 

He soon enjoyed a magnificent lifestyle in Dissipation City, where he would often entertain his friends with meals from a variety of restaurants. Favourites included thinly sliced rare forerib with a julienne of carrots and courgette, accompanied by a beautifully crisp rosti of sweet potato. Perhaps occasionally they would dine on moule marinier or scallops or langoustines, seared, dusted with chilli and served on tagliatelli or with a rich sun-dried tomato sauce. Then there might be slow-braised lamb cutlets in an herb crust, on a bed of mash, with peas and french beans. To follow might come zabaglioni or chocolate fondant with vanilla cream or lemon meringue pie or tiramasu. And then the cheeseboard, of course. 

After a while, famine struck, just as the boy’s cash reserves dwindled to nothing, and he was forced to endure a period of fasting. He considered making a meal of some less-than-fresh vegetable ingredients, but since there were no spices and no olive oil for drizzling, he declined. He decided to return to his home to become a sous-chef in his fathers’ kitchen. 

Upon his return, his father endowed him with a coat and a ring, as well as shoes and a great welcome. He also gave him a packet of blue plasters. At the party, generous portions of perfectly-roasted young calf were served with Yorkshire puddings, a richly reduced sauce made from port and onions, beautifully glazed vegetables, crisp, browned duchess potato and fragrant bread sauce, followed by mandarin soufflé or banoffee pie, with freshly ground coffee and waffere-theen mints. Vigorously avoided were all options which are paraded solely on account of being vegetarian, justly-sourced, decaf, vegan, wholemeal, fairtade, 1% fat, cholesterol-free, vitamin-C-enriched, or low-carbon-footprint.

‘My boy? We thought he’d got on the gravy train and then had his chips and been creamed, but that was just so much waffle. He’s not been braised, grilled, fried or seared!’

See also 30-minute lostness

I

Inheritance ill-gotten (indupitably), independent irritating ingrate itinerant Isaiah ignobly imparts it, intentionally, impishly.

International, internal illness. Inkling, illumination! Inducement!

‘I’ll implore, inquire, ingratiate, interlope, indelicately…’ 

Impressive isodiametric [1] ingot-insignia issued. Impassioned interlocution. Ignite, incinerate immaculate, immature impala, inter-alia.

‘I‘m inclined Isaiah-ward! Irremeable?[2] Irredeemable? Irony: isn’t indestructable, incurable, immutable; is intra-mural!’

[1] having diameters of equal length (i.e. round)

[2] not allowing any possibility of return
NB JQXYZ will appear after W

Txt mssg (SMS)

160 characters, including spaces and emoticons

SonTksDds£££2 4rnLand.
OMW£££=0p. Famin,
WntsPgswllYuk.
L8rCms2snses:
NoLngaWrthy.
DdB9,hugsGvesAuO°&sndls
+coat xx. Klls }:•h 4prtyLol. 
SnWsDedNowLivs! =:-) ptL

I've been a spanner

VIEWPOINT: Son

At the time, it didn't seem all that unreasonable. I was bored with working on the farm and bored with being the youngest son. All the rotten jobs came my way, it seemed. So I asked dad to give me my share of the inheritance. I was a bit surprised when he gave it to me, but I quickly got ready and left, before he could change his mind.

I went to a foreign country, where the women were willing and the wine was heady. Friends gathered around, and helped me spend the cash. There was plenty of it, and we had a great time. I can’t sit here and pretend it was dull in any way. No, I had a great time. But eventually, the money ran out and so did the ‘friends’.

Disaster! The whole country was overtaken by famine, and suddenly I wasn’t just hard up – I was hungry and hopeless. I got a job working with filthy pigs, feeding them the rotting swill that wasn’t fit even for starving people to eat. But I was so low myself that I even considered eating these foul vegetables.

Right there in the sty, I had a revelation from God. I came to my senses, and realised that I could have been at home, a respected member of the family, with food on the table and love all around. Even dad’s hired men get a decent dinner each night, and here I was, starving to death! So I decided I should lay down my pride and go home. I planned my speech really carefully. ‘Father,’ I was going to say, ‘I am no longer worthy to be called your son. Make me one of your servants, if you’ll allow me back onto the property after the shameful way I’ve treated you.’

I made my way back to the old farm. I was still a long way off when, suddenly, there was dad, running at me for all he was worth! He grabbed me and kissed me. I started to give my speech, but he didn’t seem to want to hear it. He arranged for shoes and a coat, and he put the family ring on my finger. He called his servants and ordered that the calf be slaughtered and that a party should be organised.

We had a fine old time. Dad was so pleased to have me back. He’s been certain that I was dead and was thrilled to bits that I was alive and at home.

H

Homily: Hopeful Harry hassles Henry. Huge handfuls! Has homogenous hombres, hash, harlots, harveywallbangers, hooch.

Hellish happening hinders. His hours, hoping, hoping he has ham’s hamper. Hiatus… Habitat: homely hireling?

Hobo hoves-to hacienda. Henry hurries: hug, halter-top, hug, hiking-boots, hug, hoop-o’-gold, hug.

Hot hamburgers, (hollandaise-sauce), hash-browns, holiday, hokey-cokey!

‘He’d had homicide; hoisted homewards. Hallelujah!’

G

‘Good grief, give!’ groaned Gregory, graspingly. Greenbacks gotten, Gregory galloped gleefully. Gone! Gregarious girls guzzled greedily.

Greg grew glum. Grunters goodies grim; gloriously gathered guilt/grace.

Got gold, galoshes, gymslip, gaiters; greeting, grand grill. Great greengrocery, golden graylings, greasy gobbet-gorging. 

Guileless generator grinned ‘Grave? God-raised!’

Scottish Dialect

[1] Aye, yon ken wee bonny bairn says tae pappy ‘Hoots, mon! D’ye nae ha’ a care for me? Gist ma BoS banknotes, sharp, if ye will.’ 

‘Nae, laddie, ye cannae. Now, fetch me another Arbroath smokie, a plate o’ ye mam’s tatty scones and a wee dram.’ 

So he bides well at home in the highlands, stirring hi’ salty porridge widdershins [2] wi’ a spurtle and learning tae play the bagpipes.

[1] See also Fugue, Tragedy, Comedy and What if? stories in the Plots category. In these cases, the outcome of the parable has been influenced by the literary construction, rather than the other way about. Do not under any circumstances use these examples as though they were the teachings of Jesus; they fail properly to reflect the Father’s forgiveness, love, generosity or kindness.

[2] anti-clockwise