h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

It has been another busy week in the Holme Valley. At last we have begun to see some sunshine again. Over Stocksbridge way though, there are still signs of stubborn resistance on the part of the snow, where it lies in some higher fields, shrinking daily, but looking for all the world like the outline of an incredible South Sea island on a map, or an abstract version of an ancient white horse, carved from a chalk downland.

Russell continues food-and-attention-yowling, and has started going out more now that the snow's gone. It doesn't stop him scuttling back in and sitting actually IN the hearth, even though we've moved his cat bed out now that he's officially no longer convalescent. I noticed the other day that he'd got so near to the stove he'd actually singed his whiskers on one side while toasting them, and they were all curled up like a cartoon cat's. Stupid mog.

The rest of the animals have been doing their usual thing, and even Dusty and Nigel seem to be getting along, or perhaps their liking for warm windowsills and duvets has overcome their mutual antipathy, Maybe they have decided they are all part of the same cat-smell after all. Mmmm. Yummy.

It's been a busy week for Deb, too. The camper van scraped through its MOT, and the plumber didn't turn up, but we have had plenty to occupy us in the meantime, picking up on media interest about Maisie's book on SPB Mais, setting up web cams on the wireless network, and in my case going to Oxford on Monday and Sheffield on Thursday for the bank meeting.

Oxford was its usual self. No other city, with the possible exception of York, makes it so difficult to drive there. I can understand why of course, but the people who run Oxford give you the impression they would much rather you parked in Shropshire, if you must bring your car at all. By the time I got back on Tuesday night, I was really past eating anything, but we decided to have chip butties. Having chipped the spuds, I decided to parboil them first, so I filled the wok (the biggest pan we have) to within an inch of the brim with water and set about my task with a will. Suddenly I was aware of Deb at my elbow:

Her: You MUST be joking!
Me: What do you mean?
Her: The amount of oil you have got in that pan!

Whereupon I flicked some of it at her to show her it was water.

Her: I didn't know you could fry things in water
Me: We chefs refer to it as "boiling"

Sometimes I worry about that girl.
The bank manager (our third in as many years) was suitably impressed by who we are and what we do, and the highlight of the meeting was when I gave him a copy of our (out of print) book about the Knights Templar and told him how they invented modern banking. Let's hope it put a spring in his step for the rest of the day as he no doubt imagined himself clanking along the corridors of their modern chrome, steel and plexiglass office in surcoat and chain mail.

This morning, I was having my usual quiet Sunday morning mooch, having let Tig and Freddie into the garden. The coffee was perking, Bach was on the Cd player, all was well with the world. Suddenly Deb erupted into the room like a small but deadly hurricane, making a beeline for the vacuum cleaner. The austere mathematical precision of the Goldberg Variations was undercut by the powerful industrial whine of the Dyson Cyclone. She has to get on with the housework, she says, because it is "green bin day" tomorrow.

Green bin day is the council's attempt at sustainability. We have to put certain things aside from the "normal" rubbish into a separate green wheelybin. I am convinced the council just takes it all away once a month and empties it all into a giant asbestos-lined landfill site, but you have got to have faith.

Faith is what keeps you going when everything else is hopeless, I suppose. In some respects this week, we've seen our faith rewarded, with good news on various fronts. With faith goes hope, of course, and we do indeed feel more hopeful - about some things, anyway. And of course, as this week included the ubiquitous "Red Nose Day", it's been difficult to avoid the charity!

While I always say "good luck" and wish the people who organise these events well - every little helps, after all - I do struggle a bit with the concept sometimes. It is a very big dilemma - there is obviously a crying need for some of their work, but on the other hand, if the charities step forward with their response, it takes the pressure off some of the governments that should be tackling the problems. On the other hand, if the charities do nothing, and the governments refuse to be bounced into action, then the weak, the poor, the innocent and the vulnerable suffer and die, because I have had a fit of "principles."

I also think that some big charities have almost become self-perpetuating, and I have reservations about giving to an event that pools the donations - I wouldn't like to think of any of my money going to a medical charity that does animal experiments, for instance. It is a very dodgy moral area. But mostly my reservations are because it lets the government off the hook.

I am finding it increasingly difficult to find anything good to say about politics as a whole, particularly in the current nasty, febrile, pre-election miasma. I know this is not a political forum, so I don't want to argue the rights and wrongs of any particular legislation, but I am finding it very hard to forgive politicians. I haven't been able to find it in my heart to forgive Blair about Foot and Mouth yet, let alone any of the more recent stuff. I don't suppose that my lack of forgiveness would cause Blair, or Mrs Thatcher, to lose any sleep, but it does worry me, because it is the thing I find hardest of all about Christianity.

I remember when I first read the story of the Crucifixion, with Jesus on trial in front of Pilate (this was before Pilate invented his famous set of exercises and went on to make videos). I sat and listened to the story in RE at school, and - because I had been raised on W E Johns and the Wolf of Kabul, and various other stories where with one bound the hero was free, I was waiting for the bit when Jesus managed to cut through his bonds while no one was looking, grab a surprised Legionary's sword, and fight his way out, preferably swinging from a chandelier, Errol-Flyn style. The only other thing I read while a child, which had a similar effect on me, was Enid Blyton's description of the death of Robin Hood, with similar results.

Maybe that was what set me off down my outlaw path, two people who said you should take from the rich and give to the poor. Governments holding the third world to ransom, please note.

No doubt one day, I will end up in the same position as Robin Hood, and my merry men will cluster round me as I will feebly request my longbow for the last time and tell them wherever my last arrow lands, there they should bury me. On top of the wardrobe, probably.

Anyway, I digress. Yes, the Crucifixion. I found it difficult to forgive the Romans, and I find it difficult to forgive the present Pilates (there's that exercise video again) set in power over us. Probably because they have a similar disregard for truth. Forgiveness is obviously something I need to work on, big-style. I think the key to it is the idea of winning by losing, which is probably what Big G had in mind when he arranged the whole Jesus thing. I am really crap at forgiveness, even when I try and divorce the person from their actions.

I am sorry. I have strayed once more into controversial territory. Perhaps I should stop writing this stuff. I am still out of sorts with the world, despite the small signs of hope, the natural gifts that Spring brings. I am not intending to slag off one party as against another. Part of my problem is that, morally, they all seem as bad. The whole area of Church and State, and where your allegiance lies, is a difficult one for me. I need faith that things will come right, hope that all will be for the best, and charity towards those who, it would seem, bear us malice. "I pity the poor immigrant" as Dylan sang.

Although perhaps a more apposite Dylan lyric is "George Jackson"

Sometimes I think this whole world
Is one big prison yard.
Some of us are prisoners
The rest of us are guards.

Oh well, if they put me under house arrest for sedition, no doubt I will have plenty of time to practice forgiveness. And I will be following in an honourable tradition (Blake). And my mortgage will be paid, presumably by the taxpayer, since I won't be able to get to the office. And my food will be delivered, since I have no intention of going on hunger-strike, and Deb will still have HER internet connection. Since she is innocent of anything, apart from marrying me. With a policeman at the end of the drive, we will be considerably safer from burglars than at present, and if I get fed up, perhaps one of you can email me a file with a cake in it.