Sumangali.org: In The Spirit Of Serendipity

I have always steered clear of the meme format for blog posts, as I considered it self-indulgent, but if a meme catches on, it ends up being more about other people than oneself, so here goes.

John Gillespie over at SensitivityToThings.com has started something with his finely crafted Six Childhood Facts post, and you can read a highly entertaining 6 from Pavitrata Taylor in From Out of the Ether a Golden Egg.

Just for fun I tried to think of a few, but only got to 5. If you think of some of your own, you can add them at the end of this post, or leave a link to a post on your own site. I realise now that the things one has grown up with, and which thus seem ‘normal’ can be amusing and interesting when viewed from adulthood, especially through the eyes of others.

If you’d rather skip the facts about me as a child, you can go straight to the dessert, a bonus feature: Age Does Not Matter. It doesn’t though does it, really?

Some Childhood Facts

1. Tutankhamun
   I would not say a word until I knew I could deliver it perfectly, so I spent most of my time silently listening, and the rest sounding like a 50s newsreader. My mother spoke to me constantly like a friend rather than a baby, so I randomly picked up long words which made me sound cleverer than I was. I nearly gave an old man a seizure in a Sussex railway station when, tottering in a knitted dress and lace-covered nappy, I pointed up at a poster for an exhibition in London and said “Tutankhamun” with newsreaderly gravity and archaeological grandeur.
2. Mastermind
   My mother and I used to be able to read each other’s minds, which might be why I have never really learned how to lie; there would have been no point. We used to play a game called Mastermind, where you have to guess the opponent’s choice of 4 coloured pegs, and the order in which they are placed. There were 6 different colours, and we used to play hardball in that one colour could be repeated up to 4 times. The games never lasted long, in fact they would often be over in one guess, but we used to play for hours.
3. Fillings
   I would eat only junk food after about the age of 9. I hated fruit and vegetables. I ate copious amounts of sweets every day but I was wraithly thin and I have still never had a filling in my teeth.
4. Cheese
   I became a vegetarian at age 13, due to my love of animals. It was rather alarming for my mother, especially as nourishing me was already so difficult, but she took it very well. In the early 80s it was not so easy to buy vegetarian food. Had I been from one of those grow-your-own-muesli, knit-your-own-yoghurt families it might have been easier, but I was not. Anyway, as I said, I would only eat junk food. In those days being vegetarian was all about cheese.
5. Magic
   I used to think I had magical powers because if I held one finger up to my eye I could see through it. It took me many years to work out that it is possible to look at one thing with one eye, and one with the other, so the two images are superimposed. Precocious in some fields; woefully retarded in others. (I’ve never told anybody about that).

Age Does Not Matter (A More Recent Anecdote)

“You wasn’t born in seventy.”

He was huge. Even his shining shaven head seemed muscular, his eyes steady and piercing like an archer’s. I was dried up and dizzy from flying all day, and then even my breath stopped. The hall echoed with an unreal uncomfortable sterility. His huge hand was on the precious little red book that has let me travel everywhere. The stare did not break. How would I prove that I am in that photo booth snap? It was all I had to show that I am me.

CHUG. The rubber stamp came down. He did not betray an ounce of mirth. But after half an instant, in which my world dissolved and hurriedly reconstituted itself, I realised he was making a joke for us both… and paying me a large compliment into the bargain. A joke and a compliment were yet more welcome in that lonely sterile world than they could have been in any other place, made funnier and kinder still by the deadpan delivery.

I yelped a strange laugh with what breath I could draw, and felt the immigration hall at JFK turn to look. Sudden sounds, especially merry ones, are not so common there. I stopped short of skipping my way to Baggage Claim.

If I didn’t seem like I was nearly thirty-seven, that is a victory for my meditation teacher, Sri Chinmoy.

Thirty-seven. I have to laugh. Other people laugh too, when I can remember (or work out) how old I really am. (Nearly 38 now!)

Yesterday I was remembering some of the “records” I used to listen to in my teens. Sometimes I do things like that just to amuse myself; it’s so staggeringly long ago it’s almost as if it must have happened to someone else. I daren’t show you a picture of me then, that would be too staggering. I look older than I do now, in fact I look older than I am now. I carried the weight of so many imagined worries.

It’s not that I don’t worry now, I do, but nowhere near as much. As the saying goes: You can’t push the river, it flows by itself. Meditating every day shows me that is so. I don’t care less; in fact by worrying less I have more with which to care.

As Sri Chinmoy says:

“Age does not matter,
Unless you replace
Your heart-light
With your mind-night.”
—Sri Chinmoy
(unofficial quote)

Age does not matter. Until his passing at age 76, Sri Chinmoy proved that to me. Through his life of meditation and self-transcendence he showed me that perhaps I am not as limited as I think. I hope to continue forgetting how old I really am. I hope to feel amused, rather than bound, if I do happen to remember, and grateful to Sri Chinmoy, especially if others find it funny too.

IMAGES:

• Portrait of Sri Chinmoy: courtesy of Pavitrata Taylor at Pavitrata.com
• Portrait of me age 7 (top): courtesy of my Mum
• Portrait of me, my Mum, Snoopy and Henry-the-dog: courtesy of my Mum

Anyone for a word game (or a nerd game really)?

I was just looking at the stats for this blog. I usually only read the top 10 search phrases, but glanced at the top 25 keywords, and noticed they almost make sense if read in order, perhaps the opening credits and scene setting of a very strange play? (Caps and punctuation added):

* * *
THE LUCKY THINGS
OF SUMANGALI MILTON
a John Peach Story

[SPACE]

Ramayana words in poem (Chinese)

Shou home (origin: container)

By Lao
(and… what… God?)

* * *

Want to play? Just take a look at your 25 top keywords. No cheating, but you can put them in a different order if you like. I just happen to like the order mine came in.

* * *

You can learn how to write Haiku for real at haiku.insouthsea.co.uk. Their site header reads “In the moonlight a worm… silently drills through a chestnut.” Bet you want to find out what happened next…

* * *

“Do or do not, there is no try. ”
—Yoda

* * *

CREDITS:

• Post inspired by: Through the Google Glass at A Sensitivity to Things
• Title Image: Sparrow, Moon and Peach Blossoms, by Ando Hiroshige

This is a short play I wrote, based on a story by Sri Chinmoy, called The Seeker-Writer. It’s a humorous story with a spiritual lesson behind it. Hope you enjoy it!

[Enter Writer]

Narrator:
Once there was a seeker who’d developed much sincerity.
By writing books he’d also gained considerable prosperity.
His first book was a comprehensive study of zoology,
His second was a very famous tome on anthropology,
His third one was his favourite: it was autobiographical,
His fourth was his most lofty, and was largely theosophical.
Animals, humans, self and God: each subject he’d applauded.
So by the greatest in each realm he hoped to be rewarded.

Writer:
Each book that I have written, let me go and read aloud
to the best in each field. They will certainly be proud!
The first one I will offer to the king of beasts: the lion,
The second to my country’s king: the highest human scion.
The third unto the highest in myself I shall address,
The last to God: my loftiest is certain to impress!

[Exits, and re-enters a forest scene. Enter lion.]

Writer:
Lion, lion, your life-force and power all admire!
Your mane so rich, your eyes so deep and wise yet full of fire!
Your poise, your grace, your speed and all deportment so majestic!
Your paws so lithe, your teeth so bright, your pouncing so elastic!
You are noble, for you only kill when you are hungry.

[Lion roars]

Writer:
Ah! and so it’s written, only roar when you are angry!
How dare you roar at me you rude and most ungrateful beast?
I sing your praise, and what? You want to make of me a feast?

[Exeunt]

[Enter Writer and King]

Writer:
Majesty! Your royal highest height of human highness!
This fine work of prose I bring to you, despite my shyness.
In it I explore the farthest reaches of humanity,
And in you I see the heights of goodness, grace and sanity,
So to you I offer my research on human nature.
Your kindness and compassion bathe this continent in rapture!
Faith and certitude arise in everyone you meet!
Bravery and wisdom just two puppies at your feet!
Blessèd are your people since your pure and noble birth:
In you we see the representative of God on earth.

King:
Thank you.

[Exit King]

Writer:
‘Thank you’? ‘Thank you’? Well my ears must need a clean.
How could it be that one so fine and noble speaks so mean!
I offer my own heart in words, all praise and admiration.
Is ‘Thank you’ all he has to say for such appreciation?
So for nought this life is spent in wordy adoration.
What can a humble writer do, when doomed by his vocation,
but weep into the night and seek the solace of his soul.

[Enter soul]

Yes! Let me read my third book, it is sure to reach its goal!
This, my favourite work of prose is all about myself,
How can I sit and let it gather dust upon a shelf?
Soul, my soul you are the brightest, dearest of possessions,
The purest and the best in me, imparter of great lessons,
To your beauty, this my earthly body is no parallel
You are the fastest whitest horse upon my life’s carousel!

[Soul smiles]

Fifteen minutes solid, soul, I have admired and praised,
And all you do is smile? Now I really am amazed.
Of all the aspects of myself I thought you were the best,
But you are much more mean and more ungrateful than rest!

[Soul stops smiling. Exit Soul]

But wait, my finest literary work I shall reveal!
If not beast or man or soul, then God will surely feel
The meaning of my words; their depth and clarity.
If no-one else, then God will see my brilliance and rarity.

[Enter God]

God, I stand before You now in grateful, warm elation
Reflecting in amazement at Your vast and grand creation
Upon your little Finger-Tip the planets make their dance.
Your Grace is in the eye of Time, of Mystery and Chance.
Throughout the universe Your fond Compassion reigns supreme.
I am glowing with delight to play my part inside Your Dream!

God:
It is all right.

[Exit God]

Writer:
‘All right‘? ‘All right’ only? No! Alas!
My finest and most lofty work waved off like so much gas?
How could God Himself be so devoid of love and gratitude?
To think I hoped to be like him! Well I don’t like His attitude!
I hoped at least my Heavenly Father could say something nice,
But in Him instead I found a heart as hard as ice.
I found only disappointment in so-called superiors,
Let me teach them something! I’ll visit their inferiors!
The tiger stands in second place for bravery and might.
I’ll choose my words to cunningly assure him of his height.

[Exits, and re-enters a forest scene. Enter tiger.]

Tiger, tiger burning bright! Your markings are the oddest,
But in the forest hierarchy, surely you’re too modest!
With your deft skills and courage all lions you’d defeat!
Such claws! such teeth! You’d mangle any hero into meat!
Lions are just pansies, all strutting, pompous fluff!
All they really do is roar to make themselves look tough!

Tiger:
Yes. Yes! Thank you little human! Now I see!
I’m Top Cat, I’m all that, it’s all about me!

[Writer nods]

[Tiger struts around, then finds a gold ring on the ground and carries it in his mouth]

Tiger:
What’s this? Let’s see, is it something nice to eat?
Yeuch, it’s made of gold! What use is anything but meat?

[Drops the ring by the Writer, and exits]

Writer:
O! Such a fine, expensive, jewelled, golden ring!
Such gratitude the tiger has to give me such a thing!
At last someone has felt my love, my efforts were worthwhile!
So much more one ring is worth than just one measly smile!
With pride and joy abundant now I’ll carry on my quest!
One realm adores me, now I’ll seek the praises of the rest.
If the tiger loves, then let the dumb lion abhor me.
If not the king, then let his minister adore me.

[Exits, and re-enters a palace scene. Enter minister.]

Minister, do you see you are much greater than the king?
Your humility is greatness, I am not just flattering!
Your selfless life in service to your country will pay off,
Every pauper, every lord to you their cap will doff.
With your virtues, wait and see, in time you’ll take the throne;
All the riches of this realm are sure to be your own!
You do all the work, and still the king gets all the glory,
But wait and see, in time it’s sure to be a different story.

[Minister looks around, gives Writer a big bag of money, then exits.]

A thousand rupees! I was right, and here’s the proof!
The so-called highest do not know and do not care for truth.
Those below them really see the wisdom of my mind.
In spiritual height I see they leave superiors behind.

[Enter Heart]

Heart, my heart, you are so nice, to everyone so kind.
They say the soul’s the highest, strongest, deepest, most refined,
But where is that fickle rogue? You’re here for all to see.
Your love so steady offers shelter like a generous tree.
Even doctors know you, and I feel you with each breath.
When you stop, I cannot live, and follow you to death.

[Heart starts to cry]

Heart:
Never! No! Words like that come only from a fool.
Have you not learned the ABCs yet at your inner school?
How can I ever match the divine beauty of the soul?
I am simple as a child, and earthly is my role,
I am honoured all my earthly life the soul to serve,
And praise for higher virtues I never shall deserve.

[Exit heart, crying]

Writer:
In passing on my lavish praise the heart was o so hasty
And to my soul, ungrateful, undivine and o so nasty!
How my heart is melting at my own sweet heart’s humility.
The heart’s the greatest part of me, the source of all nobility.

[Exits, and re-enters a Heavenly scene with a flower. Enter a cosmic god.]

Writer:
Cosmic god, I come to offer you all my devotion;
I found that God is empty of all Fatherly emotion.
I spent my life in serving Him with each breath of mine.
‘It is all right,’ He said! How very cold and undivine!
God does nothing well! I made of Him a lovely fuss,
And did He even thank me? How can the world be thus?
‘All wrong,’ I say. My praise was lofty and immense!
I think He has grown old, and is no longer speaking sense.
Your beauty and your wisdom are remarkably superior.
You need not be suspicious that my motives are ulterior;
I see in you the future God, and offer my obeisance.
I bow to you. In you I hail divinity’s renaissance.
I place the flower at your feet which God did not deserve.
In my undying service, I shall love without reserve.

Cosmic God:
Idiot! Get out with your foul words to the Supreme!
I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes when He lets off steam!
How can you appreciate the Love He has for all
With such a craven attitude and with a mind so small?
How dare you place a flower at my far inferior feet?
As wasteful and ridiculous as pearls cast in the street!

[Enter God. Cosmic god places flower at God's Feet]

Supreme, I bow to Thee, to Thee, Supreme I bow and bow.

[Exit God and Cosmic god]

Writer:
Respect is due, I say again, if not before then now!
All of my devotion for himself he could have kept,
But he gave it all to God, I swear I could have wept!
Now I know for certain that the highest are inferior,
And that the so-called greatest are in no way superior!
In so many ways I put my theory to the test
And now I think it’s time for me to take a well-earned rest.

[Lies dow to sleep. Enter Saint]

Writer:
Is it a dream? Are you a saint or do my eyes deceive me?

Saint:
A vision and a saint I am, I hoped you would receive me.
You’re a fool. Your silly theories only tricked your mind.
You tried to seek the highest, but you left the truth behind.
God sent me to you, and with some exasperation.
When the lion roared it was with joy and inspiration!
Your love brought him new courage so he spoke his mighty thunder.
It was his way of thanking you, and showing you he’d heard.
What did you think, he’d dance a jig? Or twitter like a bird?
What of the king? You think he likes verbose appreciation?
He thanked you, and you felt such vehement indignation?
He hears praise from many who are greater, more refined,
Less long-winded than you are. To thank you was most kind!
You were lucky that he let you ramble on at will.
From him a nod is praise indeed. A ‘Thank you’, greater still!
And from your soul you think a smile is such a common thing?
Did you hope to see it jump for joy or start to sing?
Your soul is God on earth, and its smile is His Divinity!
To know that you have pleased your soul is to receive Infinity!
Talking of God, there is one more thing I have to say.
‘It is all right’ means that you are right in every way!
God told you to your face your words were all perfection.
You became disgusted, but you missed His true Inflection!
For God to give such praise means all your words are ratified!
Much more than you deserved, but still you were dissatisfied!
Only a fool would choose self-pity over glory.
Your call, your life, your progress, end of story.
The highest are the highest, but those who won’t believe
Are missing out on blessings they could easily receive.
If we are earnest, pure in faith, and true unto the soul
We may let the greatest lead us to the highest Goal.

—The End—

• You can read the original story by Sri Chinmoy at SriChinmoyLibrary.com
• Other rhyming plays plays by Sumangali at SriChinmoyCentre.org:
  • Krishna’s Supreme Love
  • Music and Religion
  • Satyavama’s Perfect Husband
  • The Pilgrimage to Santiago

I’d put off visiting Scotland for over a year, even though York is inexcusably close, and even though a very kind open invitation stood since I moved north from Wales. That’s the trouble with open invitations, and things that are close: they hover just below the top of the list of things one may do, pipped to the post by others with deadlines and narrower windows of opportunity.

Through the dinge of a train window, hedges sprawled in intricate skeletal black, bothered only by crows. The sky of England sat thick and woolly, like something you’d find in an old ottoman. I entered then not just another country and culture; the hedge, the sky, the crows were identical, but carried the sense of an entirely different soul.

Arthur’s Seat, a questioning hook-nose of a mountain, reared out of flat browns and greys. A manmade mountain reached beneath: dark blocks of stone just discernible as ancient dwellings. “EDINBURGH: Inspiring Capital”, sped past on a building sign. Indeed, thought I, just then basking in its strange and powerful beauty. The train seemed to pull in to a work of fiction.

I gaped a good while in admiration at a church, the shape a child would draw for a space ship—aimed for Heaven rather than the Moon, presumably—black as a crow, in curled stone, seemingly too delicate to stand for long, yet as old as if it had grown up there as a brother to Arthur’s Seat.

I arrived, upon a short walk, at the “Old Town”. There, my Scottish friend told me, they built so many layers on top of each other because the surrounding land was swamp. It looks just so, as if they needed to be strong enough to hold fast to each other over centuries, lest they fall in, each wall a fortress of blank dark grey and turrets, up and up and up. Here and there tall alleys, or “closes” form chinks in the Royal Mile; chinks of strange blackness rather than light, climbing beguiling pathways, each with a curious historical tale. Despite the cold air, darkening sky, blackened churches, grey terraces, and obscure alleys, there is nothing of the bleak or eery about the city. Contrarily, its strength lends an inner warmth; a motherly sense of safety and familiarity.

A reformed coffee addict, I struggle a good deal this time of year when Starbucks roll out their Gingerbread Latte. I don’t care who knows it: call me shallow, call me a marketing sheep, my heart glows at the sight of that round green logo, and I look longingly in, or go in just to drink tea. I know I could do that anywhere—anywhere in the world—but strangely, a high stool by a Starbucks window is one of my favourite places for sightseeing. There in a street of kilt tailors, haggis mongers and cashmere shawls, I could fully absorb the details and subtleties of my new environment.

I had an appointment with two friends and colleagues to talk over some business before an evening meditation at the Sri Chinmoy Centre. “Meet us by Greyfriar’s Bobby.” they said, “If you get lost, anyone can tell you where he is.” I didn’t get lost, so there we stood: me and a bronze statue of a Skye terrier, on the corner of Candlemaker Row. I had to stand a little way off in fact, as he is quite the bigshot and often has his photograph taken. “Let’s go to Starbucks,” said my friends when they arrived, “it’s just around the corner.” I smiled, and once again narrowly triumphed over the guile of ginger coffee.

I was invited to help make a mandala, part of a double birthday celebration at the Meditation Centre that night. I was in my own Heaven with such simple yet detailed occupation, thrilling at the shades of colour the rice turns when dyed and drained, coaxing it into fine shapes on a printed template. I was amazed and touched by the splendour my friends created between them, under the auspices of “birthday cakes,” more a matching pair of edible temples. They told me of past visual extravaganzas for other birthdays, effusions of heartfelt creativity and childlike joy.

Birthdays are always given a lot of significance in the Sri Chinmoy Centre; Sri Chinmoy says that on a birthday, the soul remembers and renews its promise to God; the promise it made in Heaven for this lifetime. It is therefore a day of soulful meditation, of gratitude, and of divine happiness.

“Each birthday is a petal of a flower. The flower, petal by petal, blossoms and then it is ready to be placed at the inner shrine in the aspiring heart.”
—Sri Chinmoy, Reality-Dream

I love to visit different Sri Chinmoy Centres around the world, as there is always something new and inspiring to be enjoyed in each place, even though we all share the same spiritual path.

As we came back out into the cold, the famous terrier caught my eye again. I asked my host why this little dog was honoured so in bronze. She enthused a long while and promised to lend me a book when we got home.

I unwrapped the bundle of flowers I’d brought for her, and her housemate passed me a random vase to put them in. “I know this vase.” I thought, then checked myself, certain I must be confused. “No, I know this vase.” The pink ribbon around its neck was faded almost to white, but I knew the shape of it in my hand.

2003 was the last time I’d been in Edinburgh—Sri Chinmoy happened to be there on my birthday. I’d dragged a dear long-suffering friend around all the flower shops in the city for the whole day to find the “right” vase of flowers to give to my Guru. Finally I found a plump handful of freesias and gerberas in shades of light pink, and a simple bulb vase. It did not look special to anyone else, but to me it was potentially perfect. In a hotel lobby I proceeded to take at least half of the stems away—the imperfect and overly fussy—to leave a very zen clutch of sprigs. I trimmed them further and moved them about for another half hour, defying anyone who came within a metre of my craft, and bearing the brunt of a little friendly teasing. It was not so much the result I sought, but more the route: the intensity of a working meditation, the striving for Heavenly perfection through a limited earthly medium.

In the evening Sri Chinmoy called for me, meditated with me for a few moments, then passed me a gerbera from the vase. It was more profound and significant than I can express. All that came tumbling back as I placed flowers in the same vase at my friend’s apartment, now four years later, this time white tulips and freesias.

It seemed much longer than twenty-four hours later that I stepped back on the train; I suppose I had gained much more than twenty-four hours’ worth of happiness and inspiration. I opened the little paperback with a Skye terrier peering from the cover, fiesty yet wistful.

Bobby belonged to a lowly shepherd named John Gray. Such was the dog’s devotion, he lay on his master’s grave in Greyfriar’s Churchyard from the day the shepherd died in 1858. For fourteen years, until his own death, Bobby guarded his master, leaving only once a day to eat. Gaining the status of “stray” rather than “saint”, or even “orphan,” merely due to his species, Bobby faced extermination by the authorities, or at least expulsion from his post: dogs were not allowed in graveyards, and dogs were not allowed to live at all without a license. His devotion won the hearts of the local children, who saved up their pennies in a big bag to buy a license between them. His exceptional manners earned him access to the grave, further defying human regulations.

The tale itself is no doubt greatly romanticised by its author, Eleanor Atkinson, but any historical inaccuracy is surely only in the finer details; the devotion and loyalty of dogs has the power to melt the hearts of our much more sophisticated species. Are we really so evolved? Perhaps, but perhaps we still have much to learn from our little canine brothers.

“Very, very early a dog learns that life is not as simple a matter to his master as it is to himself. There are times when he reads trouble, that he cannot help or understand, in the man’s eye and voice. Then he can only look his love and loyalty, wistfully, as if he felt his own shortcoming in the matter of speech. And if the trouble is so great that the master forgets to eat his dinner; forgets, also, the needs of his faithful little friend, it is the dog’s dear privilege to bear neglect and hunger without complaint. Therefore, when Auld Jock lay down again and sank, almost at once, into sodden sleep, Bobby snuggled in the hollow of his master’s arm and nuzzled his nose in his master’s neck.”
—Eleanor Atkinson, Greyfriars Bobby

More on a love of dogs at Sri Chinmoy Centre:
Inspirational Dogs, by Sumangali
Puppy Powers, by Sumangali
Return To Puppy Powers, by John Gillespie
Puppy Powers Revisited, by Jogyata Dallas
Savernake, a poem by Sumangali
The Guide Dog and Her Man, a poem by Sumangali

Browsing through GoodNewsNetwork today I found this article about shipping container housing. “Inexpensive and abundant, old shipping containers are turning into good looking affordable housing,” so it claims.

Further research brought me to similar programmes around the world, including the UK’s Container City. The second development (pictured) comprises 22 studios over 5 floors and took a mere 8 days to install, plus it comes with the fuzzy feel-good factor of recycling on a gargantuan scale.

I laughed at the predictability of this item standing out amongst the rest, as I myself am currently trying to resolve the Affordable Living Conundrum. Increasingly challenging in the UK, and yet more so in the ancient and picturesque city of York, which seems to have adopted me or at least to have captured my heart. Thank God I was born into a family of engineers. They are all happily chipping in with ideas for space-saving contraptions, involving the use of ropes, pulleys and ladders. The surveyor described my chosen property as a “small bedsit” — as if the word bedsit needed to be further minimised — but we prefer the agent’s “studio apartment” which sounds much less ’80s, and reminds me much less of Marc Almond.

As all this is taking place in Yorkshire I am often reminded of the classic Monty Python sketch, The Four Yorkshiremen (“There were a hundred and fifty of us living in t’ shoebox in t’ middle o’ road.”), which you can view or read courtesy of Richard Pettinger here. It makes any accommodation, especially so much as a shipping container, or even a bedsit, seem like “luxury.”

If you’re more interested in living outside the box than in one (but still with the fuzzy feel-good factor), you’d better go to Inspiration4everyone.com, where you can find some jolly handy tips.

If you missed (as I did) the National Worm Charming Championships on Sunday, and you have a soft spot for silly British sports, don’t worry, there’s still time to train for the Olimpicks. If you don’t (as I don’t) fancy the competitive Shin Kicking, there’s “the traditional sackrace where the sack is tied round the neck. Straw bales provide handicaps and water is spread liberally.”

…or you could maybe just practise your Worm Charming after all.

You might think this (highly entertaining) article in the Independent on Sunday would make me a little sheepish about being British, but as eccentricity is simply part of our heritage, I may as well just celebrate it. Stiff upper lip? Not in my back yard.

As Cole Moreton writes, the worm charming takes place:

‘in the “secret field” that hosts the event (it’s always the same one, so there’s no secret at all). When a whistle blows they will have 15 minutes to get worms out of a square yard of turf by doing anything but digging. The judge, Big John Skuse, used to cheat so much (worms in his watering can, trouser legs and hat) that they put him in charge. He farms worms for a living - and sells bins in which they munch through household waste, turning it into rich fertiliser. “Being right next to Totnes [New Age capital of the West] we’ve got no shortage of crystal huggers and yoghurt weavers who think they’ll win by giving the ground an Indian head massage,” says Big John.’

Um… beats cheating though right, John? Are the ancient elixirs more effective then? Or the didgeridoos?

There’s another chance to pick up some tips on the 30th of June at the World Worm Charming Championships in Cheshire (with rules in 30 languages, including Tibetan, so no excuses for cheating there).

If you don’t fancy your chances, you could try your hand at Cheese Rolling (in Gloucestershire), Rolling Pin Throwing (… hmm… also in Gloucestershire) or there’s always the Pea Shooting (in Cambridgeshire). Nettle Eating (in Dorset) then? What about Snail Racing (in Norfolk)? Or if you’re slightly more energetic you could try a spot of Fruit Chasing at the Orange Race (in memory of Sir Francis Drake… aha, that’s in Totnes).

Cole Moreton’s article continues:

‘“We are eccentric,” says Dr Lesley Prince, social psychologist… “It is part of the British national identity.”

Yes, but why? And isn’t this an English rather than British thing, really?’

Well… not really, Cole. Haggis Hurling could surely only happen in Scotland? And is the World Bog Snorkelling Championship not held in Wales each year?

I’m sure it’s not even just a British thing though, right? Surely other countries have strange sports… right? What about Extreme Ironing? That’s global.

I read today in The Independent about the bank robber who got away with 120,000 carats of diamonds from a bank vault without using violence or even force. His secret weapon was chocolate… with which to charm the staff. It happened in Belgium, so he had a head start.

The biggest diamond on earth is The Star of Africa, one of the Crown Jewels, at 530-carats. Even though it’s the biggest in the world you could still fit it in one hand (I think you’ll need quite a lot of chocolate to get close enough, but you can practise with this life-size photo).

The biggest known diamond in the universe though is 10 billion trillion trillion carats, and it’s floating above Australia right now. Known officially as BPM 37093, it’s nicknamed Lucy, after the Beatles song. I imagine if it was close enough to earth, diamonds would soon become two a penny, but it’s 50 light years away, so unfortunately creative diamond crime is probably set to continue for a while. It’s known, rather less glamorously, as a white dwarf, or yet less so as a star that has run out of gas.

There are a lot of diamonds out there, big ones, and bank robbers might be pleased to know that they sometimes fall from the sky. Earlier this year The New Scientist ran a story about rare black diamonds possibly having crashed to earth in a 1km-sized rock. That was a few billion years ago though, so Belgian chocolatiers, don’t be disheartened.

Diamonds are the strongest material on earth. They can only be cut with lasers or other diamonds. They’re certainly beautiful, although not so useful now we no longer need them for record players. I wouldn’t spend too much chocolate on them personally.

I was looking for a fitting quote with which to end, but this found me first and I thought it unwise to risk continuing:

“A fine quotation is a diamond in the hand of a man of wit and a pebble in the hand of a fool.”
—Joseph Roux

Perhaps instead I’ll leave this link to something I wrote a while ago, inspired by the night sky, called A Galaxy of Stars (published at SriChinmoyCentre.org).

Or you can find out why Belgian chocolate is so good at VisitBelgium.com.