Whitewash, by Peter Morford

When they found the first cave paintings, the experts thought they were about 20,000 years old. They praised the draughtsmanship and realism, and if one buffalo in Lascaux appears to have two rear and three front, legs, nobody worried.
As time went by they found ancient art in every continent. In Australia the dating was 28,000 years: Borneo 40-52,000, Iberia 64,000 years. Three thousand generations. In Borneo they were still painting in the last 100 years and palaeontologists are running classes on tv.
Silly question: Why did the cavemen paint their walls?
Answer – because canvas was too expensive.
Alternatively: Our ancestors had the same instincts as we do. They had imagination. They could see the galloping animal and carry the mental image back to the safety of their cave and draw it.
Well-decorated walls have always been a sign of cultural or economic power. I imagine a Neanderthal man, with a much bigger brain than mine, had the same instincts to outdo the Joneses. Later, the builders of cathedrals and pyramid had the same idea of aggrandizement.
Today, it’s expensive girlfriends, the fleets of expensive cars, the Old Masters, the ownership of Championship League football teams, the superyachts, Lear Jets and the £100m. houses in Belgravia which, declare the owner to be the big winner. Nothing changes.
Some time, perhaps during the Industrial Revolution, people living in mean houses in befouled industrial cities tried to improve their hovels by painting the walls with whitewash. It was cheap, easy to make and, when the smoke spoilt it; easy to repaint. The front step had to be scrubbed daily and repainted frequently if the lady of the house, mothering the survivors of her fertility, could earn respect in her neighbourhood.
Sunny Mediterranean houses are painted to reflect the heat. It isn’t art but it’s practical and, anyway, there were plenty of pictures in the museums.
Nowadays, whitewash doesn’t mean cleanliness but covering up the dirt. We’re all good at it, especially if we’re in public life. Persons of power or influence use it to the maximum. Governments and Ministries are especially liberal with the wide brush. When some blunder leads to loss of life or enormous expense to the taxpayer, there’s always someone demanding an Enquiry or Royal Commission. A big name is made chairman. Over well-paid months or years he digs enough dirt to justify further budget and time. Two or several million pounds later, he promises to publish his report- but not just yet. There’s the hope that the Public will have lost interest after all this time but there’s sometimes a pesky protester. In haste a bland and diluted report squirts forth and the Pesky Protester demands more.
Time for another barrel of whitewash. This type of whitewash is art. It’s the genius of cover-up and the freedom of the perpetrators to enjoy their pensions. It’s enough to make you proud if you’re a politician or a lawyer.

Night, by Catherine Redfern

I fear the dark of the night
not as in my childhood -
then the forces were external,
witches, ghosts, for a long time
the Speckled Band - there was a high vent 
above my bed.

No: today, tonight,
it is my thoughts I fear.
As the moon rises
they multiply with the stars
they merge into a Milky Way
of echoing reproach:
you've failed, you've failed.

And can I at this late hour 
wake to a calm dawn
of quiet resolution?
Is there a healing path
leading to the sunlit uplands,
and I, inept, irresolute, rudderless,
can I find and follow it?

Notes on a Funeral, by Anthony Bloor

The journey the station the streets the accents the bus station the driver the accents the stop the walk the church the service the car park the drive the roads the roundabouts the creme the service the curtains the wait the car park the drive the roads the lodge the cousins the voices the memories the car park the drive the traffic the lights the queues the detour the station the rain the train the rain the rain the rain…

A cynic would say that funerals are civilisation’s way of dealing with what is essentially a waste disposal problem, best solved by cremation. One in, one out – a conveyor belt for the dead, exploited by those in the business for a tidy sum that continues to rise. Leaving the house that morning, I was more concerned about the weather. And the trains. It was just about feasible. It meant catching the first train from Church Stretton and leaving Durham fairly early to catch the last train from Manchester. The trains were on time. Then a bus ride to the rendezvous, a church in the middle of a housing estate. Leaving the church, the guests exchanged nods and smiles and words of satisfaction that the resume of Sheila’s life had been a fitting tribute. But falling asleep that night, the eulogy was lost, the details dissolved in the day’s events which were strung together like scenes from a movie.

And the movie was rewound, replayed, rewound and replayed, over and over – the journey the station the streets the accents the bus station the driver the accents the stop the walk the church the service the car park the drive the roads the roundabouts the creme the service the curtains the wait the car park the drive the roads the lodge the cousins the voices the memories the car park the drive the traffic the lights the queues the detour the station the rain the train the rain the rain the rain....

The Office Cleaner, by Peter Morford

About out a year ago I told Betty, the House Manager, that my office was not being cleaned properly.
“I’m sorry Mr Perkins, we’ve had a number of complaints lately. We’re going to change the cleaning contractors – they start next week. I’m sure you’ll see a difference.”
“I’m on holiday for a fortnight.”
“You’ll see an improvement then. Have a good time.”
Two weeks later I checked the bookshelves and the top of my filing cabinet. They were clinically clean. The phone smelled medicinal. The air was fresh and wholesome even though I had yet to open a window. I said as much to Betty.
“I’m glad you’re happy. We bend over backwards to serve our clients,”
“Really?”
“Of course.” She winked and rolled her eyes.
As I said, I try to work regular hours. On this occasion I was having deadline trouble.
The Telegraph had commissioned an article about a company in Glasgow and I had spent a few days researching and interviewing. It was going to be a late session. It must have been about 7 o’clock when my door burst open.
“I’m sorry, Sir, I didn’t think you’d be in. Shall I come back later?”
She was about thirty, dressed in the smart uniform of our new cleaning contractors, with her vacuum cleaner, basket of dusters and polish. Her ID tag told me she was Mary Patel.
“No. Come on in. I’m almost finished.”
She started in my spare office while I rechecked my article and emailed it to the paper. As I was locking my desk and filing cabinet she came back. I said, “My office is much better since you took over.” She smiled.
“Goodnight Mrs Patel.”
“Goodnight Mr Perkins.”
For the next week or two I kept to my usual times and was away before the cleaner came. And then I had another tight deadline. I had been down to the café for a sandwich and returned to finish my article. There she was, sterilising the phone.
“I’m nearly finished,” she said.
I decided then that she was not quite the sort of person one associated with the term ‘cleaning lady.’ I may sound old fashioned, but I usually expected cleaners to be, well, more working class. She spoke properly, for a start and there was the lilt in the voice, as you would expect from a Patel. I decided that she was too old to be a student. Perhaps she worked three hours a night because she needed the money, while her partner (she wore no wedding ring) looked after the children.
“How long have you been working for OffKlene?” I asked.
“Two years.”
“Do you like the work?”
“It’s fine. It doesn’t stretch the mind. I’ve just read that,” she added, pointing at a new-published novel on my desk.
“Did you enjoy it?”
Within three minutes she had analysed the style, psycho- analysed the author, found an inconsistency in the plot and anticipated the sequel. Here, I thought, was a cultured, educated and beautiful woman.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,”
“Goodnight Mr Perkins.”

Happy Christmas everyone!

Blogs, by Peter Shilston

They followed each other's blogs and social media entries, though they had never met and did not even correspond directly. Their works were completely different: he wrote little stories, fantasies for the most part, whereas she wrote about the small incidents of her daily life, in a wry and amusing fashion. He deduced from these that she was a university graduate, young and unmarried, who worked in a college library where there were plenty of old books. She had no idea who he might be, or how old he was. 
   Because of this lack of contact, they built up  imaginary pictures of each other. She saw him as a would-be warrior against the forces of darkness; he saw her engaged in a quiet but unsuccessful search for love. And both were right.
   They might have appeared to be opposites, but in the sight of God they were no more than opposite sides of the same coin: they complemented each other, and together formed a Unity; for in their different ways they were searching for the same thing, which so many philosophers and mystics sought:  the Absolute; the ultimate single Whole that is truth and love and everything.

Just a postcard, by John Roberts

I picked the card up from the doormat. After noticing that the very brief message referred to the picture, I turned it over. Well! I don’t consider myself to be at all prudish, but frankly I was astonished – amazed that it was ever allowed to be printed. I prefer to draw a decent veil over what the couple in the picture were doing. What’s more, the male figure, if you can call him that, was a robot. Why? Who dreams up this sort of thing? Whoever it is must have a very peculiar mentality: that’s all I can say. And who would want to buy it? Personally, I’d be far too embarrassed to take it up to the counter; that’s all I can say.

Anyway, I had another look at the message, to try and work out who’d sent this nasty rubbish. All it said was, “This is you!” in capital letters, followed by an email address which I didn’t recognise.

Now I’m sure you’d agree that the most sensible reaction would be to tear up the card and forget the whole thing. For a moment I did intend to do just that, but instead I decided to reply. I spent quite a bit of time thinking up a really clever put-down response and then sent it. I’m not going to tell you what I wrote, but I still think it was pretty funny.

The result wasn’t what I expected, because that same day I received a follow-up, which said, “If you want to discuss this further, come to the ‘Fox and Grapes’ at 9 next Tuesday”. I could have ignored that, of course, but I knew the pub quite well: it was a quiet place, and it never occurred to me that I might get beaten up or anything like that. Besides, I’d have thought up a few more witty lines in the meantime.

So at 9 prompt I was in the saloon bar. And before I’d had time to look around properly, a voice said, “Hello! I knew you’d come!”

It was Sarah! Well, I was completely flummoxed! I’d presumed the card was from a man; some idiot who thought it was screamingly funny, and I was all prepared to turn the joke back on him with a few well-chosen scathing comments. But it was from a girl! And Sarah! Why, I hardly knew her at all!

So there I was, reduced to silence. Then she said, “I thought that postcard would appeal to your quirky sense of humour. I chose it specially.

“Now that you’re here, shall we go somewhere and do it?”