Carousel

I had another poor night. Over the last two days my throat has worsened and it’s now painful even to swallow liquids.

Mum and Dad seem to think I have tonsillitis, but when they saw my anxious face they reassured me that having tonsils taken out doesn’t necessarily mean hospitalization. I haven’t been in hospital for even a night since I was born. I spent the day in idle lounging, justified for once by my illness.

In the afternoon it started raining and kept on steadily into the evening; a grey depressing mantle descended upon the house. Dad, Andrew and I watched the British 250cc and 500cc Grand Prix from Silverstone on the box; in the latter race, two riders were killed and we saw one of them lying motionless on the track, his helmet spinning uselessly nearby. The race was halted and run again, and the Americans took first, second, third and fourth.

I’ve just read a leaflet commemorating the death of the Bishop of Whincliffe last month. “We rejoice in the certainty that he is now in that great company which no man can number, who now see Jesus face to face.”

No, he lies in the ground, face to face with nothing but the black earth and the worms, while this blind eternal carousel spins on indifferently above him, as it will above us all eventually.