16 March 1999: The One True Religion

There's a scene in a movie about Lady Jane Grey when Mary I trots into London after consolidating her power, on her horse, and cries something about the one true religion. I am very stirred by that until I realize she's talking about the Roman Catholic church, and not Apple's Macintosh computer operating system.

Today I went to Winchester from Waterloo. A lovely hour's trip. I spoke to a working mum on the train. She was traveling with a laptop and a discrete mobile phone voice. She was hoping to slip home without her husband knowing, but he rung her up and she confessed. "I was going to go home, open all the windows, and have a nice tidy-up!" She said this the way I talk about shoping or sitting in a tub full of rosewater bath bubbles. She admits to being a horrible liar. Everyone in Britain seems to have a cell phone, but they are much quieter and polite about it. It almost embarasses them when someone gives them a bell, unexpectedly.

Winchester Cathedral is a fascinating place. A Norman church built in the 1070s, and added on to over the years. Also, the Cathedral has been the scene of several Protestant-Catholic go-rounds. Henry VIII had St. Swithun's bone's destroyed. Ouch. Elizabeth had some statues smashed. Protestants objected to human imagery in the house of God. The Roundheads of the English Civil War shot out most of the stained glass windowns and the remaining statuary in the 1640s after making England a no-fun zone for about two decades.

"Wicked Chylde!" The Protestants and the Catholics did not like each other much.

Luckily Charles II and his big hair returned and the Restoration allowed the Winchestrians to dig up the stained glass fragments and make a big patchwork-quilt of colors for the front windows.

Meanwhile, Mary I married Phillip II of Spain in this cathedral, under the auspices of the "one true religion." She was a sickly woman and must've had a bad chill--she kept throwing Protestants on the fire. To be merciful, they sometimes put a bag of gunpowder around the victim's necks so their heads would explode and they could die sooner. None of this was covered in their HMOs, though.

Back then there was a revolving door on the gaol and Protestants were exchanged for Catholics with each new administration. As Oprah would say, "A lot of hurt feelings."

A lot of artwork has been added since then. Like St. John the Divine, there's a blend of old and new. It's a living church. I got a one-on-one tour from a volunteer guide. These guides are mostly senior citizens being put to good use. She pointed out the new artworks and the vandalism. Someone stole the wooden sword held by the Joan of Arc statue. Someone broke St. Patrick's thumb off his statue at the Bishop of Edington's Chantry Chapel. I am not an observant religious man, except for the Macintosh, but this sort of vandalism is so pointless and stupid. If you hate religion or God, why are you in a cathedral anyway?

The cathedral has a leaflet that says it has been a place of worship for nine centuries and is "home to a living community of men and women who work for the glory of God and the creation of a better world."

They also have a nice gift shop that doesn't have a mission statment and sells Jane Austin chocolates. She died there and is buried in the cathedral. Walking over her poor bones made me a little queasy, especially since I have never read any of her books yet. My lovely guide said that a bunch of orthodox Jews were absolutely horrified to learn that bodies were buried there and they were walking overer them. Jews are very egged about dead bodies. You can't leave them unattended or leave them around for too long. You pay someone to watch over the coffin but only certain people can touch the dead. You get buried quickly and then you eat. "Thank's for coming... fix yourself a plate." Christians are different. You have a party for a few days (I think they call it the wake), talk to the deceased, slip souvenirs in the casket (a lot of Sicilians do this), and after eating and drinking you get around to the funeral and burial.

Back in London I walked to L and L's house up from the Angel tube stop. We had a cod and chips dinner with plenty of HP sauce. Vinegar and tamarinds. Mmmm... I got to watch the baby's bathtime. I took photos. L and L have a strict "no pee-pee" rule, not that I really want to see that itsy-bitsy appendage immortalised. Apparently L's mum trotted out the naked bath shots to his embarassment for years.

Embarassment. A mother's one true religion.


As I trudged home with my purchases, some egg in a compact car suddenly pulled over to the kerb and asked me for help. Assuming he must want directions, I started to explain that I am a foreigner. He was American and started very frenetically yammering about needing help. I very abruptly asked him what he wanted. He started telling me some con story about having his car (uh huh, his other more expensive car "that belongs to his father") impounded by the police, and he only had 33 pound on him. This whole scenario stunk, so I held up my shopping bags and said, "All my money has gone toward filling these bags. Sorry." and I moved on and he sped off. Just how stupid did he think I was?

Take it from the victim of two con jobs: When people need money and have implausible stories, move on. When they greet you with the phrase, "Believe me, I am not an axe murderer," move on. I'm not sure how that confessional is supposed to allay any doubts I might have.

Next entry...G-G-G-G-G Get Out of London

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