Caveman Prod and Christ Jesus

I chose my blogger name not because I believe in cavemen: I don't. Of course I understand that a man can live in a cave out of choice (and why not?), but I don't think there were ever any primitive communities of Neanderthals huddled together in the dark with stone tools and animal skins, other than in the imaginings of that silly and pernicious rascal: the creative writer.

So why did you choose it?

I looked across the room at Staunton, who had not lifted up his eyes from his cards as he spoke.

I just shrugged in reply. There was never any point trading words with Staunton, unless there was a fishing trip to organise or some sausages to cook, or at least plan for.

I turned back to the window.

I chose it, said I, because I used to live in Cave street. In a squat that we called "The Cave". I was a young man and they were happy times. Until it all spiralled out of control one dismal rainy morning.

Prod, you know, is what people used to call me when my name was Prodigal Son, which it was for a couple of years. I mean they didn't actually call me that or anything much at all, but I imagined that they might, in a moment of friendly benevolence, if we were ever in the business of tramping around a lake together and planning to cook some sausages and brew a cuppa.

Did you remember to bring the sugar?

"Ask Prod", would be the reply, because I was known to be thorough in such matters.

Also, back in those days, I would always have some tobacco, skins, herb, roach card, and a well primed Zippo. Because I was a regular smoker.

After a while I discovered I didn't need that stuff at all. It was Jesus Christ who told me: you don't need that stuff lad, saith He, you've got me now. He was right - of course.

A small church

So it turns out that after a lot of ferreting around, from unrestrained Hedonism to a destructive online cult with hangouts and journalling, the Humanists with their tea and biscuits, the Skeptics with their real ale, the Conspiracy people with their spliffs, and the New Agers with their potions, I have ended up attending a small actual church with an even smaller congregation. 

It's quite good, now that I have become a Christian (which I have... I was going to mention it sooner or later), to be able to go to a proper church without worrying about having to hold my hands in the air or attempt to sing along with Christian rock songs, following the lyrics scrolling on a big screen hanging over the stage like at a rock concert, because here, we sing the old favourites and keep our hands down at all times.

The hardest thing to understand, at first, was the quiet time, when we just sit in mainly silence, or so it seemed, for up to an hour. I used to practice my handwriting by copying out bible verses or read the bible silently. I thought it was odd, and I imagined that anyone chancing to come into the meeting from the street would feel quite uncomfortable, which of course they would.

But things aren't as bad as they first seemed, because it turns out that in the quiet time we men can pray aloud and speak the things that are on our mind if we so choose - I mean Biblical things of course, not fretting about whether or not to get a bloke in to fix the immersion heater and suchlike. So once I had plucked up the courage to say a few things it's been a bit hard to get me to shut up at all, because I like to ventilate my dentition and I often seem to  have something on my mind that requires utterance.

I have to be careful however, because of what James said in the third chapter of his book - and he's quite right of course: a wagging tongue is a dangerous member indeed. As my beloved mother-in-law used to say when someone had spoken out of turn (usually my father-in-law, who scarcely opened his mouth but to speak out of turn): e un bel tacer non fu mai detto, which is a sort of nonsense, meaning, loosely "never did the yearned for withholding of speech find utterance". So I'll take her cue and shut my pie hole.

Prod