The Boris boss says; " HUMILITY? "Bah humbug!"
Just been. To. St. Mary. Barnes. Dementia. Friendly. Carol Service. Staccato punctuation, because it's worth emphasis.
Cute kids, sheets and (tons of) tinsel? There's always a place for that. But ordinary becoming extraordinary's more my bag.
By the way; no-one drooled. Even if they had, who cares? Babeeee Jeeeesus wasn't toilet trained at birth; though sanitised femfresh faith, would have us think otherwise.
This was quite the opposite. Whole person, faith. Whole lives, including tears and fears, welcome. Smiling, WAS allowed, though. And there was plenty of it. "Brexit", wasn't mentioned once.
SHOCK REST ROOM REVELATION!
And guess WHAT? Many of the people I met, some of whom had dementia/alzheimers, could GO TO THE GENTS/LADIES BY THEMSELVES!
St Mary's church, Barnes, hosted. Supported by the lovely Dover House Singers (in appropriate Christmas jumpers); conducted by musical maestro, Carl Speck. Anyone who can corall a choir, a mixed ability congregation ( I refer to my own screeching/singing here), a rogue toddler, into some semblance of a Christmas celebration, deserves Lloyd Webber's Knighthood.
Bleak? No. Groundbreaking, yes.
My Mum had Parkinsons, and could still recognise 'In the Bleak Midwinter', (which we sang with tenderness), even in the illness's later stages. She liked the first and last verse:
"What can I give him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb. If I were a wise man, I would do my part, Yet what can I give him: give my heart."
Dementia or no, that's more than enough for the Godself, don't you think?
.....there was a smiley pink haired little creature. Who, if she ate the RIGHT sweets, from the RIGHT sweet shop owner, then she could jump, play and love her little creature life nearly all the time.
She had courage, too. Some sweet makers had given her bubble gum that made her bubble over and wear herself out, or strawberry bon bons that made her go to bed, she got so sleepy.
SHERBET THAT MAKES YOU SHAKY...
But, every time she'd been given the WRONG sweets by the WRONG sweet maker, she carried on searching; looking in sweet shop windows, road testing raspberry ripples, trying out toffee chews and sometimes shaking tiny bits of sherbet onto her tongue. Just in case ONE of them made her feel better.
She'd been to shops in Sugar Land, and Confectioners in Candy Floss Town. She'd tried rock ends in Raw Syrup City, and nearly choked on HUGE gob stoppers in 'Goo EE Chew by the Sea.
NO MORE CANDY CASH
For a while she'd FOUND those RIGHT sweets made by the RIGHT sweet maker, and she was as happy as a Sherbert dip dab on D day. But all this too-ing and fro-ing and resting and recovering from being given the WRONG fruity flavours had swallowed up most of the candy cash in her purse.
So, she packed up her sugar bags and found a small but still sweet new place to rest her weary creature head. Sweet maker rules said, she had to get her regular rhubarb and custard (the ones that helped her to cut the mustard) , from another NEW shop.Off she went, to meet the new shop keeper.
Grim Reapers Deadly Sour Pips! This shop lady was NO butterscotch honey! When she asked for the sweets she KNEW kept her as well and dandy as a cola shandy, you could hear an ACID DROP.
The silence would have made the funniest fizz bomb fade and even the most perfect peppermint cream curl.
'NO ONE IS SPECIAL IN MY MINT IMPERIAL MEDICATION MANSION'....!
The liquorice tongued lady lashed out: 'you will have the SAME sweets as EVERYONE else....NO-ONE is special in MY Mint Imperial Medication Mansion.
The little creature, started to cry. Big fat sugar free tears trickled down her little friendly face. She trudged out of the shop; taking time to notice a long queue of sad eyed souls, all chewing the same way.
They seemed to be eating exactly the same sweets, too. One offered her an over boiled tiny little tablet. Then another did the same. Soon there were over 200 sad souls, their rice papery hands out, with the SAME tastless looking tablet ON EVERY PALM.
She thanked them for their kindness, but ran out of the door and down the sweet wrappered road as fast as her now creaky creaturely legs could carry her; ready to break, her bones nut brittle.
BETWEEN A CINNAMON ROCK AND A HARD PLACE...
She was between a cinnamon rock and a hard place. Although she wanted to give up and go and hide in her ginger bed: she knew she HAD to ask her Fisherman's Friends for help. 'I won't let that Aniseed Twist me up tight I'm gong to Har – I go and get my spangle back somehow, some day. ...you just wait and see...'
(To Be continued).