Hiding the Blackberry

I've hidden Young Keith's Blackberry.

It was a hard decision, but it had to be made. Every time the rotten thing flashes, he rushes to it to see what the problem is. Does he have a decision to make? Has something gone wrong? Will he need to rush into work to save the day? Will he - once again - save the world through the power of spreadsheets?

The point is though, most of the time it's just emails from other people he works with him, catching up with their work at the weekends. The work which, if they didn't do at weekends, they would have to do during the working week. Not meaningful stuff, for the most part. "Thanks for your email - I'm working on it." Or "Sorry I didn't respond to you last week. I was having a week off with stress."

But once he's read an email, he can't resist responding - just to prove he's read it on a Saturday or Sunday or three o'clock in the morning, or whatever. And of course that causes someone else's Blackberry, somewhere else in the Home Counties, to flash its little red light. And they find out Young Keith's responded. So naturally they send him an answer.....

So, impressed with Sam's article (which mostly relates to church life, but I've widened it to Keith's life) I've hidden his Blackberry. It's wrapped in cling film, in a four-feet deep plant pot, underneath the Big Yukka in the conservatory. We'll lift up the Big Yukka again on Monday morning and let him have it back before he goes to work.

Meantime, it's had a bad effect on Young Keith. He's sweaty, prowling round the Big House, looking in corners, trying to find out where the Blackberry's gone. I've told him to have a walk, have a read, have a beer. And he tells me yes he'll do that - just as soon as he's found his phone.

I can see I'm going to have to do this every weekend. It could take a while to cure him.

Back to Work Tuesday

"By the sweat of your brow will you have food to eat until you return to the ground from which you were made." (Gen 3:19)

And so as the Christmas break ground to a halt, and in obedience to the Biblical command, many returned to work. Except those who were working last week, like bin-people and shopworkers and warehouse people and firefighters, the police and ambulance - and the Scottish, of course, who get the extra day. And vicars and the like who, after days of sleep deprivation through Midnight Communions, Masses of the Dawn, Watchnights and what have you, need a few days off to get some sleep.

We've packed all the Beaker People with standard office jobs back off today with a sprinkling of water from the Pouring Beaker, and the ironic strains of "I wish it could be Christmas every day".

And yes, as I said in my short address, it's tempting to think wouldn't it be great if there were no work - just sitting round eating Turkey and listening to the Wombles.  Always Christmas but never getting to Easter. But life's not like that. And for all the back-break or mind-ache of the jobs some do, those with no jobs aren't always so happy. Some are blessed with the health and imagination to lead fulfilling lives; and some are blessed with the cash to make idleness happy if they don't have the imagination. But for most of us, worklessness is as bad as drudgery and work part of the rhythm of lives - a place to meet others, a change of scene, and sometimes a place to enjoy.

So I sent them off with those cheering words, then put my feet off and spent the rest of the day dining off crumpets and black coffee and reading "The Return of the Native". I like to think it's not slacking - it's exercising a prophetic ministry.

If Job Interviews were like the X-factor

Mr Walsh: So then - Kayleigh. Can you tell me about your current job?

Kayleigh: It's as an administrative assistant in the buying department of a national fish wholesaler.

Mr Walsh: And can you tell me about a particularly challenging project you've had to undertake there?

Kayleigh: I had to investigate the relative cost prices of haddock and cod from different suppliers and fisheries, and summarise them into a table. An Excel Table that I embedded into a Word document. A Word document containing words that I wrote myself, straight from the heart. My own words.  Mr Walsh, I gave that document everything I had. It was the most important thing I ever did. I put my heart and soul into that project, Mr Walsh. [Cries]

Mr Walsh: And would you say that your made that document your own?

Kayleigh: It was my own. I even put my name at the top of it. And I tracked changes, and everywhere it had been revised it said "Kayleigh Daly". And Mr Walsh - that was my document. If that document ever belonged to anyone, it belong to me. And if any document ever belonged to me - it was that document.

Mr Walsh: You owned that document?

Kayleigh: It was owned by me more than it was ever owned by anyone else. [Breaks down]

Mr Walsh: So, Kayleigh - why do you think you would make a successful administrative assistant at Amalgamated British Prawns?

Kayleigh: I just want this job more than anything else I've ever wanted in my life. I don't want to be a nobody - I want to be a somebody. Somebody who was born to buy prawns. [Sobs]

Mr Walsh: So why do you want to buy prawns?

Kayleigh: I think about the ones waiting for me, back at home.

Mr Walsh: Your children?

Kayleigh: My cats. Binky and Mr Flat-Face.

Mr Walsh: Mr Flat-Face?

Kayleigh: He was born with no depth perception. Every time he tries to jump onto a wall he smashes straight into it. I owe it to Mr Flat-Face. The thought of him jumping onto my lap - and missing - when I sit down this evening, and saying to him - "Mr Flat-Face. I'm afraid it's value-price dry cat food again" - when it could be the delicious off-cuts of prawn at discount prices that I'd be entitled to buy if I worked here.... [Sobs] I just don't think I could do that to him. And that's why this job means everything to me.

Mr Walsh: Well thanks, Kayleigh. But finally, tell me - I take it you're named after the Marillion song?

Kayleigh: That's right. My parents loved it - "Chocolates melting on a playground wall..."

Mr Walsh: I think you'll find that's "Chalk hearts"?

Kayleigh: Oh, is it? Do you think maybe I'm.... a little hard of hearing? Mr Walsh - is it true that every day I'm overcoming a drawback I never even knew I had?

Mr Walsh: That's some back-story, Kayleigh. And you really owned this interview. I think we've come on a real journey. But there were twenty-four people applying for this job, and I can only put four through to the next round of interviews. Kaleigh..... It won't be you..... who I'll be disappointing. You're through to the next round!

Kayleigh: [Breaks down in tears] I did it for Mr Flat-Face. Oh, thank you, Mr Walsh. [They hug]

On the theological aspects of the Return to Work

Now many in this fair realm have been to work already since Christmas Day.  Indeed, some noble, unselfish and/or compelled souls were forced even to work on Christmas Day itself - I refer, of course, to ministers of the Christian religion, and Father Christmas.  And those who labour in the emporia of Messrs Waite and Rose, or of Messrs TE Stockwell and Cohen, have no doubt been at work on and off ever since the Great Day.

But tomorrow is the day for the great mass of the proletariat to return to their regular labours.  Barring snow, icy roads, or last-minute hangovers, tomorrow the Invoice Passing Clerks, PC Support desk operatives, and even teachers - incredible as it may sound - return to work.
And most will be grumpy.  But a few will be glad.  They will see in their roles, whether it be the instilling of wisdom into young minds, the emptying of wheelie bins into rubbish vans, the tilling of the soil or the time-honoured craft of the Passing of the Invoice, an echo of the creative work of the Creator in... well, in creating.  What JRR Tolkien referred to as sub-creation.  And for some, debugging a tricky line of code or rejecting a consignment of Norwegian Pine because it is insufficiently traceable will be a blessing and entering into the Divine Plan.  They are the blessed ones - the ones that can see that all days are indeed truly special, that the sun rises every day, and that there is a glimpse of the sublime even in the toasting of a burger bun.

But for others - the day rises as a day of drudgery.  They will cling on until 5 o'clock, or whenever their time of indenture ends, and then go home figuring that at least there are only four days left till the weekend, or - according to their philosophy - only 8 months until the Summer Holiday, or 11 and a half until next Christmas.  Or - if you are a sitting New Labour MP - only five months till you can have a nice long rest, for at least 10 years or until someone considers that they have other uses, unlikely as that seems.  These are the ones for whom we should feel something - not the MPs, the others. The ones who know all about the curse of the Fall, as they wrestle with the nettles of pushy salesmen and the thorns of dim-witted suppliers.  The ones for whom the night gives no rest and the day gives no fulfilment.  The ones that - whether in their quick tyre replacement garage, or their forecourt, or their grimy mezzanine office in a warehouse in Corby - just want to get home to Eastenders, so they can share in the misery of others.

I'd like at this point to point the way forward for these people, for whom only the promise of Celebrity Big Brother gives any kind of meaning and hope for the future.  I'd like to, but I can't.  That's the problem with the Beaker Faith.  It's all about feeling and emoting and rather depends on you being in a good state of mind in the first place.  We're dead good at accepting, and listening, and sharing your pain.  Actually, sharing it is maybe a bit strong.  Hearing about it - for a reasonable but not excessive period of time - that's what we're really good at.  Frankly, suggesting you light a tea light is about as helpful as we get.

So - the good news is, with Hnaef out at his archery school, Young Keith back at the office and Burton doing an audit on a tractor company in Leighton Buzzard, it's all going to be pretty quiet around the Great House for the next week or so.  I hereby announce that the Sunrise Service will be held at lunchtime. No point in pushing it.

And if you're really worried about work tomorrow, can't stand the thought of it, and are just hoping that the earth will open up, or 10 feet of snow fall in the night - can I suggest lighting a tea light?  It works wonders.