Bingo

by Helen Zanni

My ex-husband comes from a tiny village, 2000 feet up in the Italian pre Alps, close to the Swiss border near to Lake Maggiore. At the time we used to visit, there were still about 250 people living there, no shops, one bar, the church, a bus twice a day (but not on Sundays) and a “market” on a Thursday. The market consisted of a fruit and veg van, a general food van with salami and cheeses, and a clothes van selling the corduroy trousers and chequered flannel shirts favoured by the men of the village, plus a wide array of vests, knickers and woolly socks. And an occasional “Moroccan” who sold tat from the back of a car and called everybody Maria. As Maria is the most common name in Italy, he would strike lucky at least once each visit.

Each summer we would make the annual visit to see Mamma. My ex-pat husband would turn truly Italian for a couple of weeks and his mother would lovingly feed him with all sorts of concoctions, some of which were truly disgusting. Nervetti to name one! To be fair, she used to make her special “zucchini” for me. I have never been able to emulate that particularly tasty dish. I’m sure she left out a crucial ingredient in the recipe she gave me, just so that I couldn’t make it like Mamma.

He’d stay in the bar playing cards and I would be home with a good book – at first on my own and then with our daughter.

In later years I managed to get out and about a bit more with my daughter – adventures on the bumpy bus to go swimming in the often icy lake. Anybody who has swum in freshwater will know the breath-taking feeling – we were essentially swimming in melted snow from the top of the surrounding mountains.

As we used to visit in August, we were there for all the village festivals, which all consisted of food and alcohol and church. Church was during the day and as the sun was going down people would gather in the church square or down at the school, where there was a covered, but open air party area. Great for the unreliable mountain weather. The village survives under the patronage of Saint Lawrence, a martyr who seems to have been grilled on a gridiron with gladioli. 

Candles were bought and delivered to the priest in church for blessings. When the candles ran out, Anna, the church busybody, would go and gather armfuls of the donated candles and recycle them for sale once more. Enterprising and profitable for the priest.

When evening came, people took their places on the church wall or at specially set up tables in the square, ready for the main event – bingo!

That year, Giuseppe and I were on holiday and sat in the square ready for action. It was my first experience of bingo, Falmenta style. I bought my tickets and awaited the start of the main event.

Half the village were present along with various holidaymakers – ex-pats from Milan who had houses in the village and came up regularly to escape the city heat, others who had bought a house for the same reason, but who were generally regarded with more suspicion as they didn’t “come from the village”. They just though they were a cut above everybody else.

Bona, married to Graziella, but not from the village (even though he had settled there) started the proceedings. “Silenzio!” several times, as there was not much hope of that – everybody was talking too much. “Ok, we are playing for a line and the prize is a bottle of wine. First number 25.” “Have you got that?” “No, I haven’t, have you?” “No, I haven’t, what about you, Piera?” “No, I haven’t got it.” “I have!” “Ooh, you lucky thing, Lucia! We haven’t got it” “Silenzio! Silenzio! And the next number is 48.! “Have you got that?” “No, I haven’t. Have you?” It’s going to be a long night.

I was on four numbers, just waiting for number 19. “And the next number is – Silenzio! – number 19” “Cinquina!” I shout. “Ooh, l’inglesina has won!” “It’s Zepin’s wife!” Wine bottle duly delivered once the ticket had been checked – and yes, the English one could actually understand the Italian numbers and had won fairly and squarely.

“OK, so now we are going for the full house. The prize is a salami, a plant and some towels.” Really? So, the numbers are gradually ticked off my card and I’m waiting for …. “58”. “Tombola” I shout. “No, it can’t be! She’s won again!” “ luck of the English, that is.” “I only needed two.” “Oh, I was nowhere near – I needed four.” “What about you, Piera?” “Has he finished?”

Card checked, the prize is delivered – a huge salami, two green striped towels and a green palm like plant, which will not be imported illegally into England. Neither will the salami. At which point Giuseppe appears from where he’d been socialising across the square. “For God’s sake, if you win again, just don’t call it or you’ll be lynched!” Spoilsport! I could have cleaned up there.

A few years later our annual holiday was shared by my older sister, my brother-in-law and young nephew. St Lawrence’s day was duly celebrated with church, followed by the bonfire and bingo! My brother-in-law, John, having partaken of a few glasses of red, decided to be friendly to some visiting German holidaymakers. “Come and sit down! My sister-in-law speaks German.” Thanks, John. It’s been a while. We carried on a stilted conversation. My German became more fluid, sorry fluent, as a direct result of the amount of red wine imbibed. “Why not join in with the bingo?” says John “Helen will translate.”

Bona starts. “Ventisei” “Twenty six” “Sechsund-zwanzig” “Trentatre” “Thirty three” “Dreiunddreissig” “Sessantaquattro” “Sixty four” “Ummmm…..” “Elen, Vierundsechsig” comes from the table of teenagers behind us.

They all learn German at school rather than English (more use than English for the tourists).

And so we limped through a game of international bingo. We didn’t win. I didn’t get lynched and I didn’t have the dilemma of whether to import plants and salami into England. I guess the huge block of Parmesan which Mamma bought us every year doesn’t count, does it?

Travelling Home to Heaven: My Aunt Doris

by Sylvia Harrison

My Aunt Doris was born to a Gypsy family in the north of Devon. The family didn't move around a lot, so it was possible for Doris to go to school, which she loved to do. Doris then went on to go to grammar school.

During her younger days she would write stories and poems. When my Mum, Dad and I visited Doris's family, she would read her stories and poems to me, which I very much enjoyed.

Then at one of the fairs, Doris met and later married her soul mate Jimmy, and moved with him to Plymouth. Sadly, her mother-in-law died, and at about that time, Doris turned to the Lord and became a born-again Christian.

A few years later she had her own church. This church became one where Gypsies and non-Gypsies went to hear her sermons.

Doris was very calm and loving and also a good listener. She would give very wise advice, when asked. Romany Gypsies loved to have her around when they were ill or dying; they all said she gave them a lot of comfort with her soft voice and her strong belief in God.

Aunt Doris gave me a different outlook on life. I already had a little belief in the blessed lord and his Son. Aunt Doris gave me the true love of God.

The born again Christians were different to the church I grew up to believe in, but she never pushed her church onto me. Instead, she would tell me little stories, for example about my family, because she knew I loved my grandparents very much. She told me different stories about how they believed God had helped them through the bad times when the were treated badly by other people, and how they were not only forgiving, but loving, giving people the benefit of the doubt. They would say that people didn’t know what they were doing or saying.

Aunt Doris taught me to think first. Very often, when I became angry with people who didn’t understand our way of life (Romany life) I just thought of my Aunt Doris and my grandparents and of course the blessed Lord; I would then calm down. She told me that I should see their point of view, because other people would all get together to convince them that they were right, that you only need one bad apple in the barrow, and that all Romanies are the same. But in every walk of life there are good and bad.

I will give you two of the poems from her book, which the family had printed for her.

This was written with very much love by her niece, Sylvia.

The Missionary

O for to be a missionary

was such a great dream of mine!

And while I waited upon the Lord,

I sat knitting to pass the time.

How I longed to be one of God's chosen

and travel across the world.

And may a prayer was spoken

down through each line of plain and purl.

On a vest I went out to the Congo;

on a coatee I went to Japan;

and down in the toe of a tiny boot,

I was lost in the streets of Milan.

Then all my garments were ready

far over the world to roam

in the hands of other missionaries,

while I sat knitting at home.

Then one day a missionary told me

how God in answer to prayer

had sent little parcels of clothing

to those who were naked and bare.

So when you sit at home knitting,

don't envy the gifts of some,

for when you stand in the line at the end,

the Lord will say, "Well done!

"Thou too art a good and true servant

though thy job seemed fruitless and bare.

The gift that I gave thee of knitting

clothed my lambs who had nothing to wear."

The beautiful flower

Close to the river bank, hidden by bushes,

a beautiful flower grew sadly alone.

Tears trickled over her pearly white petals, 

for she hadn't one little friend of her own.

"What can I do?" she said, shaking her petals,

"There is no-one to see how pretty I grow.

Even the river runs by with a murmur,

'Can't stop little flower, I've a long way to go.' "

Then high overhead she heard a strange buzzing.

"Have you come to see me?" she cried to the sound.

"Please Mr Bumblebee, come down and sing to me."

With a swish of brown velvet, he circled around.

"Of course I will sing you a song, little flower!

Then I must hurry and fly away home.

My mother is waiting with my honey supper,

and she doesn't like me flying alone,"

So all through the summer the beautiful flower

let tears of self-pity fall over her cheek.

"Very soon now," she cried, "I'll lose my petals,

and then I won't even be able to speak!"

But time waits for no-one and soon it was winter.

The north wind blew stronger each day.

Too cold to care now, the little flower

just let her petals blow sadly away.

Then Somebody found her close by the river bank.
Sadly neglected, she lay in the snow.
Digging her gently, he laid her small body
in a beautiful garden where she was to grow.

Suddenly springtime unfolded her petals.
"Where am I?" the flower called out in surprise.
"With friends!" called the voices of other white flowers.
"We thought you would never open your eyes!"

Prayer for South Sudan

From burning villages and butchered babies
Good Lord, deliver South Sudan.

From the misery of flooded refugee camps and the agony of famine
Good Lord deliver South Sudan

From the brutality of men of war, and the death of her newborn
Good Lord, deliver South Sudan.

Please don't gag our protests

The Government's Lobbying Bill, (Transparency of Lobbying, Non-Party Campaigning and Trade Union Administration Bill.) is causing concern in the charitable and not-for-profic sector, because there are draconian measures in Part II which will effectively gag everyone except political parties for a whole year before any and every election - European, County, District, Parish, National - every single one.
My sister's response to Chloe Smith, the minister responsible for the bill, is the most eloquent I have come across. Please read on:

"This is what I have written. Please please do not copy my words, as Chloe Smith needs to hear from us individually, but please do have a look if it will help. Best to all.

"Please could you reconsider how this bill is worded? I understand the need to regulate how people put pressure on the government, but the likes of 38 degrees, SumofUs and AVAAZ are not the same as trades unions nor minority parties.

These on-line organisations really have given us a voice at last. These organisations help me to feel that I can make the government of the day (whichever one is currently 'in power') listen to the ordinary voices of ordinary people. We work hard, we love our country, but some of the decisions taken by some politicians make me wonder if they are living in the same time zone (and financial zone) as me. Clearly some are not.

It is SO important that these organisations are free to comment on what is happening, and give us our voices. If thousands of us sign a petition, it truly is because that MEANS something to us, we FEEL worried/ aggrieved/ disenfranchised.

If I DON'T feel strongly about a petition, I DON'T sign it. Believe me: the petitions I sign I feel strongly about.

Organisations like this CANNOT exist without our little contributions. I send £5 a month to 38 degrees and $4 dollars odd to AVAAZ because I WANT to be able to have my voice heard, I don't belong to a political party. I don't belong to a trades union. I DO wish to live in a democratic state.

I urge you please not to cancel my voice."



If you also want your voice heard, use this link to write to Chloe Smith:
38 degrees speakout to Chloe Smith

Read NCVO’s statement here: http://blogs.ncvo.org.uk/2013/08/18/transparency-of-lobbying-bill-unintended-consequences-or-trojan-horse/

And HOPE not hate’s here: http://www.hopenothate.org.uk/blog/article/2976/the-government-is-trying-to-gag-hope-not-hate

Bishop of Exeter on "Gay Marriage"

Bishop of Exeter: 'Gay marriage is not a faith issue – it is a challenge to our society'

Saturday, December 29, 2012

The Bishop of Exeter the Rt Rev Michael Langrish debates redefining marriage.

Humpty Dumpty sat on his wall talking to Alice: "There's glory for you," he said. "I don't know what you mean by glory," Alice said. Humpty Dumpty smiled contemptuously. "Of course you don't till I tell you. I meant there's a nice knock down argument for you." "But glory doesn't mean a nice knock down argument," Alice objected. "When I use a word it means just what I choose it to mean, neither more nor less."

That is precisely how it appears to be with the Government's use of the word 'marriage'. A shared common meaning, with its roots deep in all cultures and faiths, is to be thrown aside and the term re-fashioned to mean what they wish it to mean, though reading the Government's response to the Consultation and the Secretary of State's Statement to the House of Commons, so many questions are left unanswered that I am not sure that the Government knows what it wants to mean!

Maria Miller has spoken of how marriage has evolved through human history; and it is true that it has, but one thing and one thing only has remained constant and that is that it relates to the union of a man and a woman. There have been many other restrictions on such unions which have varied from time to time and place to place with different laws relating to age of consent, number of permitted spouses, termination and what is allowed or prohibited or allowed between members of the same family group. What has stayed constant is an understanding that marriage is between male and female, based on the complementarity of the two sexes.

Those who advocate 'same sex' or 'equal' marriage have sought to define opposition to this development as a 'faith' issue. That is simply untrue. It is a societal issue, as it redefines marriage and that will have consequences for us all. For example, common to the definition of marriage up until now accepted by both Church and State, has been an understanding that the making of a marriage is not completed in the marriage ceremony – wherever that may take place. It must be 'consummated' in the sexual union of male and female, an act which also brings with it the potential for the creation of new life. Failure to consummate has been one of the grounds on which a marriage may be declared as invalid and annulled. What does consummation mean in the case of two people of the same gender? The Government has said that this is a matter that will be left to the courts. But then either there must be two separate definitions of marriage, which ministers say there cannot be, or else these judicial decisions will shape how any marriage including those already in existence, will be said to be a true marriage.

In spite of this huge difficulty, until this point I thought I could see where the Government was coming from. Why was it that civil partnerships were insufficient for those of the same gender who wished to make a public commitment to a permanent sharing of their lives? As we know, the law already provides for those in civil partnerships to share in the same legal benefits of marriage, and if there are remaining differences, it is easy to tidy up the law. However it seems that something more is being sought here because a civil partnership is simply an act of registration. Marriage however, in law, is seen as a 'performative act' bringing something new into being, something that until the exchange of vows and consummation did not exist. A desire for such a performative, celebratory act are aspirations I can understand and there are ways in which the law could be changed without depriving the concept of marriage of its single, central meaning.

But then Maria Miller suggested that an existing civil partnership could be transformed into a 'marriage' simply by signing a register. And if one marriage is simply a matter of civil registration with no vows, no performative acts and no criteria for consummation, then for every other marriage it must be the same; and each of us who is married will have seen that to which we have committed ourselves – some of us over many decades – irrevocably changed.

The Government has been keen to portray any difficulties with what they are proposing as an issue of faith, but it is a matter that touches one of the key building blocks of our society and therefore affects us all. It is not just a matter of special provisions for churches and other faith communities. Exemptions from conducting 'gay marriages' are being offered to churches, but nothing is being said about the education that is to be offered through Church schools. In Devon 30% of Primary School pupils attend Church Schools, and our presence in the Secondary sector is growing. Are Church schools to be allowed to teach a traditional understanding of marriage while in non-church schools a different understanding is to be taught? Or will Church Schools be forced by law to conform to a new understanding which has no roots in the doctrines of any of the major faith communities? If so this sets an extraordinary precedent for the State's power to determine articles of faith, unparalleled in history apart from in those repressive ideological states of the extreme right and left. At this point we will have left the realm of Lewis Carroll's Wonderland for the land of George Orwell's 1984.

Whatever the humane desires and good intentions that may have led Mr Cameron to embark on this project, there are so many unanswered questions and unforeseen consequences that ought to suggest caution before serious damage is done to the very thing that has been so precious a part of our social fabric – the lifelong union of one man to one woman to the exclusion of all others for the creation and nurture of the generations to come. It is possible that what is created may not even end up fulfilling the hopes of those couples it was intended to serve.

An Irish Girl in England

The Yorkshire Lady and her small poodle

 The good thing about the English Lady's new house was that, like the last one, it was child-free. People get very cross when I express my utter hatred of children.  Don't they understand the fear behind it?  I will tell the full story one day.

Life was quiet, which was good up to a point.  After that point, one is pleased to have visitors. I liked it when the Yorkshire Lady came. She had a small black poodle, who made me feel very big and confident.  He liked to sit on her lap, and if I went up to her, he would growl.

If I could have laughed, I would have.  This grumpy old man had no idea how small he was.  I used to give him a lick on the nose, which only made him grumble some more.  Then I would leave him alone, and lie on my bed, or sit next to the English Lady to be stroked and petted.

I was safe.  I should have been perfectly happy.  Safety was what I had always longed for. But still I was beginning to yearn for something.  I couldn't see or smell

The Irish girl

what I wanted. But something in my doggy heart was saying, "There's more, Sheba, there's more."

Hate Crime

It’s a normal day in the office,

                                    mostly boring with nothing great planned

When the phone rings, not routine any more,

                                    nor boring, nor quiet, nor bland.

But a man disabled and living with pain,

                                    whom the locals have started attacking-

Name calling at first, then throwing things,

                                    coming closer when punishment’s lacking.

There’s no choice to be made,

                                    it’s just not hard to know

That it’s wrong, and a crime,

                                    and I tell the man so.

I call the Police, go as high as I can,

And find a policeman, who’ll visit that man.

And I long to know

                                    that the cowards were caught,

And taken to court

                                    and a sharp lesson taught,

Though I don’t really think that it’s so.

It’s a normal day in the parish,

                                    assembled on Sunday to pray

And the man who’s leading the prayers

                                    is ever so clearly gay.

We think we know his value –

                                    musician we love to have play

But we didn’t know how much we’d hurt him

                                    til we heard what his prayers had to say.

“We pray for those socially unacceptable people

 who long to be who they are.”

Unpartnered now maybe for ever,

                                    he will celibate go to his grave

Because we couldn’t allow him

                                    the love that it’s human to crave.

I wonder if Jesus will bless us,

                                    as Bibles held firmly in hand

We march in our holy procession

                                    towards his promised land

Or whether he’ll say that Aquinas

                                    was simply a man of his time,

And explain that he’s told Paul of Tarsus

                                    what the God of love thinks of his crime.