round and round each other. The whole sky was full of colours and singing.
In case you don’t know, this is what St Francis did when he was my age (i.e. in 1190 ). He bought some birds from the market and let them go. So I was actually doing a saintish thing. In fact St Francis didn’t have a shopping trolley, so he probably didn’t do it to as many birds as me. So technically I was being more saintly than him even. The parakeets flew low over my head, like they were trying to thank me. Their long red tails streamed out behind them like fire.
I turned around to watch them and there was a man behind me, in a tatty brown gown, with a bald head and a big hole in the back of each hand. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘this brings back memories.’
I said, ‘St Francis of Assisi (1181–1226)?’
‘I did this, you know.’
‘I know. I know. That’s why I did it.’
‘Course, mine was mainly pigeons and songbirds. We couldn’t source the tropicals back then, or the fancies really.’
‘Do you know of a St Maureen at all?’
‘Doesn’t ring a bell to be honest.’
‘Oh.’
‘But there again, I’m kept very busy these days. My trouble is I’ve become increasingly relevant as time’s gone by. There’s the environment, animal rights, the Third World, and now this whole Muslim thing. I met the Sultan, you know.’
‘I know. In Acre in 1219. You walked over hot coals without being hurt.’
‘Don’t try that at home.’
The parakeets came swooping back and flew over our heads towards town. We strolled up after them. You could see the whole muddy river now, and the town perched on the edge of it and the oil refinery with its plumes of bright yellow smoke. And the Widnes–Runcorn bridge like a big stepladder leading up to Heaven.
‘I was the first vernacular poet in Europe. And the first environmentalist. And I started out by doing exactly what you’re doing. Setting birds free.’
‘What did you do after that?’
‘Well, you know . . .’ He waved his hand towards the Shopping City. There was a bus pulling up and crowds of people waiting to get on it. ‘I helped the poor.’
‘Of course. Of course you did. That’s brilliant. Thanks.’
I ran all the way home.
10
The Widnes–Runcorn two-hinged arch bridge – proper name ‘the Jubilee Bridge’ – was built in 1961. It’s not really a ladder to Heaven. This doesn’t mean there’s no such thing as a ladder to Heaven. There is. It’s in Genesis, Chapter 28, Verse 12.
Every time you do a good deed, it takes you up a rung. Well, 229,000 pounds is enough money to give 458 poor people 500 pounds each, and 458 good deeds equals 458 rungs of the ladder, which is a long way up. We would be practically saints in Heaven by the time we’d given it all away. I decided to tell Anthony about the exciting opportunity for canonization.
He was behind the telly, rigging up a new Digibox. ‘Anthony,’ I said, ‘do you ever feel that the money is hollow and meaningless?’
‘How can it be meaningless? It means we’re rich.’
‘What has it given us really, apart from piles of stuff ?’
He switched the telly on and flicked through all the channels, making sure the new ones were there, and said, ‘Thirty new channels, that’s what.’ Then he sat down to watch World Federation Monster Truck Tug of War .
‘Won’t Dad notice thirty extra channels on his telly?’
‘Dad never notices anything.’
The Monster Trucks were good but not meaningful. ‘Imagine if we could be saints.’
‘Why?’
‘I think we should give the money to the poor. We’ve got enough to give 458 poor people 500 pounds each. And then they won’t be poor any more. And we would be saints, which would just be quality. If you’re a saint you can walk through fire, or do a miracle, or grow a big bushy beard like St Wilgefortis.’
‘What’s so good about growing a beard?’
‘Wilgefortis was a woman. She grew it to avoid unwelcome male attention.’ The unwelcome
In case you don’t know, this is what St Francis did when he was my age (i.e. in 1190 ). He bought some birds from the market and let them go. So I was actually doing a saintish thing. In fact St Francis didn’t have a shopping trolley, so he probably didn’t do it to as many birds as me. So technically I was being more saintly than him even. The parakeets flew low over my head, like they were trying to thank me. Their long red tails streamed out behind them like fire.
I turned around to watch them and there was a man behind me, in a tatty brown gown, with a bald head and a big hole in the back of each hand. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘this brings back memories.’
I said, ‘St Francis of Assisi (1181–1226)?’
‘I did this, you know.’
‘I know. I know. That’s why I did it.’
‘Course, mine was mainly pigeons and songbirds. We couldn’t source the tropicals back then, or the fancies really.’
‘Do you know of a St Maureen at all?’
‘Doesn’t ring a bell to be honest.’
‘Oh.’
‘But there again, I’m kept very busy these days. My trouble is I’ve become increasingly relevant as time’s gone by. There’s the environment, animal rights, the Third World, and now this whole Muslim thing. I met the Sultan, you know.’
‘I know. In Acre in 1219. You walked over hot coals without being hurt.’
‘Don’t try that at home.’
The parakeets came swooping back and flew over our heads towards town. We strolled up after them. You could see the whole muddy river now, and the town perched on the edge of it and the oil refinery with its plumes of bright yellow smoke. And the Widnes–Runcorn bridge like a big stepladder leading up to Heaven.
‘I was the first vernacular poet in Europe. And the first environmentalist. And I started out by doing exactly what you’re doing. Setting birds free.’
‘What did you do after that?’
‘Well, you know . . .’ He waved his hand towards the Shopping City. There was a bus pulling up and crowds of people waiting to get on it. ‘I helped the poor.’
‘Of course. Of course you did. That’s brilliant. Thanks.’
I ran all the way home.
10
The Widnes–Runcorn two-hinged arch bridge – proper name ‘the Jubilee Bridge’ – was built in 1961. It’s not really a ladder to Heaven. This doesn’t mean there’s no such thing as a ladder to Heaven. There is. It’s in Genesis, Chapter 28, Verse 12.
Every time you do a good deed, it takes you up a rung. Well, 229,000 pounds is enough money to give 458 poor people 500 pounds each, and 458 good deeds equals 458 rungs of the ladder, which is a long way up. We would be practically saints in Heaven by the time we’d given it all away. I decided to tell Anthony about the exciting opportunity for canonization.
He was behind the telly, rigging up a new Digibox. ‘Anthony,’ I said, ‘do you ever feel that the money is hollow and meaningless?’
‘How can it be meaningless? It means we’re rich.’
‘What has it given us really, apart from piles of stuff ?’
He switched the telly on and flicked through all the channels, making sure the new ones were there, and said, ‘Thirty new channels, that’s what.’ Then he sat down to watch World Federation Monster Truck Tug of War .
‘Won’t Dad notice thirty extra channels on his telly?’
‘Dad never notices anything.’
The Monster Trucks were good but not meaningful. ‘Imagine if we could be saints.’
‘Why?’
‘I think we should give the money to the poor. We’ve got enough to give 458 poor people 500 pounds each. And then they won’t be poor any more. And we would be saints, which would just be quality. If you’re a saint you can walk through fire, or do a miracle, or grow a big bushy beard like St Wilgefortis.’
‘What’s so good about growing a beard?’
‘Wilgefortis was a woman. She grew it to avoid unwelcome male attention.’ The unwelcome
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