INDEX:
Coverage for my January 2016 corporate film role from Personnel Today
Coverage for my January 2016 corporate film role from civilsociety.co.uk
A Little Bird Told Me (true short story)
First Born ~ Dramatic Arrival (true short story)
Is This the Dawning of the Age of Aquarius? (feature article)
Jenny's Driving Ambition (true short story)
A Christmas Miracle (true short story)
Town Living in England (tongue-in-cheek feature article)
Country Living in England (tongue-in-cheek feature article)
Goin' Home - A Message in the Music (true short story)
A Sane Scientist Speaks (feature article)
Scroll down to view any or all of the above....
Coverage for my January 2016 corporate film role from Personnel Today
Coverage for my January 2016 corporate film role from civilsociety.co.uk
A Little Bird Told Me (true short story)
First Born ~ Dramatic Arrival (true short story)
Is This the Dawning of the Age of Aquarius? (feature article)
Jenny's Driving Ambition (true short story)
A Christmas Miracle (true short story)
Town Living in England (tongue-in-cheek feature article)
Country Living in England (tongue-in-cheek feature article)
Goin' Home - A Message in the Music (true short story)
A Sane Scientist Speaks (feature article)
Scroll down to view any or all of the above....
Interactive video helps fundraisers learn from actors with disabilities
A new interactive video featuring actors with disabilities reveals what it can feel like for vulnerable people when a charity fundraiser knocks on the door.
It’s been created by elearning company, Sponge UK as part of an online training programme for The Public Fundraising Association (PFRA), the membership body for charities and agencies carrying out face-to-face fundraising.
Three actors play the role of homeowners who are unexpectedly disturbed by a door-to-door fundraiser. They all have disabilities that are not immediately obvious and the training video explores the rules on how fundraisers should behave when dealing with people with physical and learning impairments. Each video shows two different perspectives so people can see the same encounter from both the fundraiser’s point of view and that of the person answering the door.
Peter Hills-Jones, CEO at the PFRA, said: “This is a ground-breaking approach that has never been more needed in the charity sector. Creating this innovative platform for fundraisers to learn on has been a huge leap forward for us. The interactive video is a powerful way to highlight issues of vulnerability and help fundraisers understand what it can feel like to answer the door to a stranger. Driving up standards in face-to-face fundraising using this online training will help to create better fundraisers and longer-term donors.”
Actor, author and disability campaigner, Lewis Adler appears in the interactive video as a homeowner with a hearing impairment. In real life, Adler has severe hearing loss and Dystonia, a progressive neurological movement disorder.
He said: “I’m one of more than 70,000 known Dystonia sufferers in the UK. I truly value any opportunity to raise awareness of the condition, and that of hearing loss. Without a doubt, this initiative by the PFRA lifts the training of face-to-face fundraisers and disability awareness to a new level. Indeed, it has been a privilege for me to be involved in its production.”
The interactive video also features actors Di Cram who is blind, and Ellen Coulton who has Tourette’s Syndrome.
The PFRA has invested in a state-of-the-art elearning training package, which includes the interactive video, to help fundraisers stick to the rules and follow best practice. The online learning is mobile-friendly and also includes elearning games to help make it as dynamic and engaging as possible. All PFRA members can access the programme for free and it’s expected to help supplement the training of hundreds of face-to-face fundraisers across Britain.
Sponge UK is one of the Britain’s leading elearning companies and works with both private and public sector organisations to provide tailored-made online training courses, games and interactive videos.
Here's a link to Personnel Today: http://www.personneltoday.com/pr/pr/interactive-video-helps-fundraisers-learn-from-actors-with-disabilities/
PFRA launches ‘e-learning platform’ for street fundraisers
The Public Fundraising Association has launched an interactive “e-learning platform” for members to help street fundraisers understand how to identify vulnerable people.
The platform, which is split into four different modules and is free to all PFRA members, covers the rules on street and door-to-door fundraising and uses a mix of “interactive games and videos to emphasise the real circumstances of potential donors”.
The four modules are called: ‘Street fundraising’, ‘Rules’, ‘Doors’ and ‘Vulnerable people’. This module consists of videos utilising “three actors with disabilities” and tests the fundraiser’s reactions when engaging with them.
Lewis Adler, one of the actors who appears in the vulnerable person module, suffers from severe hearing loss and dystonia, a progressive neurological disorder. Of the PFRA’s learning module, he said: “I’m just one of more than 70,000 known dystonia sufferers in the UK, but hardly anyone has heard of it. Needless to say I truly value any opportunity to raise awareness of the condition, and that of hearing loss.
“This initiative by the PFRA lifts the training of face-to-face fundraisers and disability awareness to a new level.”
Other videos in the ‘Vulnerable people’ module feature a blind actor and another who suffers from Tourette’s syndrome. Peter Hills-Jones, chief executive of the PFRA, said: “The interactive system is a powerful way to highlight the standards we expect of our fundraisers, but provide them with the right kind of support. Driving up standards in face-to-face fundraising using this training will help to create both better fundraisers and longer term donors.”
A spokeswoman from the PFRA said that the platform cost "£47,000 to develop" in partnership with web developer Sponge UK. The PFRA spokeswoman also said that the organisation will look to "add more modules in 2016 (e.g. trustees, data protection, telephone fundraising, etc) following a consultation with members on what they would find most useful".
Here's a link to the civilsociety.co.uk article:
http://www.civilsociety.co.uk/fundraising/news/content/21080/pfra_launch_e-learning_platform_for_street_fundraisers
The platform, which is split into four different modules and is free to all PFRA members, covers the rules on street and door-to-door fundraising and uses a mix of “interactive games and videos to emphasise the real circumstances of potential donors”.
The four modules are called: ‘Street fundraising’, ‘Rules’, ‘Doors’ and ‘Vulnerable people’. This module consists of videos utilising “three actors with disabilities” and tests the fundraiser’s reactions when engaging with them.
Lewis Adler, one of the actors who appears in the vulnerable person module, suffers from severe hearing loss and dystonia, a progressive neurological disorder. Of the PFRA’s learning module, he said: “I’m just one of more than 70,000 known dystonia sufferers in the UK, but hardly anyone has heard of it. Needless to say I truly value any opportunity to raise awareness of the condition, and that of hearing loss.
“This initiative by the PFRA lifts the training of face-to-face fundraisers and disability awareness to a new level.”
Other videos in the ‘Vulnerable people’ module feature a blind actor and another who suffers from Tourette’s syndrome. Peter Hills-Jones, chief executive of the PFRA, said: “The interactive system is a powerful way to highlight the standards we expect of our fundraisers, but provide them with the right kind of support. Driving up standards in face-to-face fundraising using this training will help to create both better fundraisers and longer term donors.”
A spokeswoman from the PFRA said that the platform cost "£47,000 to develop" in partnership with web developer Sponge UK. The PFRA spokeswoman also said that the organisation will look to "add more modules in 2016 (e.g. trustees, data protection, telephone fundraising, etc) following a consultation with members on what they would find most useful".
Here's a link to the civilsociety.co.uk article:
http://www.civilsociety.co.uk/fundraising/news/content/21080/pfra_launch_e-learning_platform_for_street_fundraisers
A Little Bird Told Me (a true story)
Of ALL the profoundly mystical experiences I've had in my life - and I've had quite a few - this one remains especially close to my heart, because it probably saved my life.
Divorce can be an extremely unpleasant and unhappy experience. Indeed, after more than thirteen years of marriage, I lost a home and virtually everything in it; a business; a motor car, and ... most devastating of all ... two children. Nevertheless, when the decree absolute popped through my letter box in April 1982, I heaved a great metaphorical sigh of relief. At last the way was clear to build a fresh life with my new partner Jenny.
Within a few months, however, I was dealt a cruel blow. On July 10, 1982, I awoke to discover that the Bedford van containing my state-of-the-art mobile discotheque roadshow, and the accompanying record collection, had been stolen. The following day, the van was found on a housing estate two miles away. It was empty. Something in excess of £10,000 worth of equipment and records was gone forever, and I was crushed: ruined. My spirit had been broken. Deep down, I suspected that this traumatic event … on top of the long, drawn-out divorce-related stress … would take its toll. And I was right.
By the end of 1983, I was not only profoundly depressed, but I was also suffering frequent panic attacks, and an equally distressing mix of agoraphobia and claustrophobia. However, unbeknown to me at the time, those nightmarish symptoms were not a reflection of my general state of health. On the contrary, they were entirely due to the side-effects of a supposedly "mild sedative" prescribed by my former GP during the early stages of my divorce. I'd trusted him, of course. But how was he, or I, to know those little pills would cause far more serious problems than the one they were supposed to alleviate?
Consequently, I was losing all interest in life, and I seemed powerless to prevent the decline in what little remained of my sense of well being. Then, out of the blue, Jenny was offered voluntary redundancy from her place of work. She sold the house we were living in, and we moved from Bexley in Kent to Torquay in South Devon. However, my health continued to go downhill.
My abiding memory of 1984 is one of a waking nightmare of panic attacks, depression, disorientation and detachment, together with a longing for an end to all the suffering.
Then, one beautiful autumn afternoon, I retired to our spare bedroom in an effort to find solace in the blessed escape of sleep. Quite what happened during that short nap, I’m not sure. When I awoke, the early evening sun was streaming through the window and, for the first time in a couple of years, I opened my eyes and felt slightly lifted in spirit. It was as if I had been given a choice. Either I could stay or I could go. And if I chose to stay, the first thing I should do was wean myself off the aforementioned prescribed sedative.
Happily, by the Spring of 1985, I had succeeded in breaking what had become, in all respects, an unrecognized addiction to a prescribed drug. The panic attacks and other symptoms had become less frequent and, as a result, I was in a more positive frame of mind. So much so that, at breakfast one morning, as I stood looking out of the kitchen window, I was inspired to paint the decorative wall in our back garden. First, though, I had to transplant a honeysuckle bush that grew over a portion of the wall in question.
That objective achieved, I set-about the painting process itself. With paint brush in hand, and … almost continuously … a cigarette in the other hand, I worked steadily from the corner of the wall under the old apple tree, out towards the open garden. As I emerged from beneath the branches of the apple tree, my progress became more rapid. Several minutes later, I had reached the section of the wall which stood directly over the disturbed earth where the honeysuckle bush had grown.
It was then I noticed a movement out of the corner of my right eye. Looking-up, I saw a robin perched in the branches of the apple tree above, and slightly to the right, of my head. Leaning on my left hand, I said an affectionate “good morning” to the little bird, and then lit-up another cigarette. At that point I resumed the painting job. A few moments later, I was still sitting on my haunches painting furiously, when I heard the sound of fluttering wings close to my right ear, followed by a brown blur that flashed in front of my eyes.
Slightly startled, I looked down between my knees, and was astonished to see the robin looking back up at me. As if to acknowledge my close proximity, he gave a little robinesque bow; studied the bare earth at his feet for a second or two; dipped to pick-up a tiny morsel, and then flew back to his vantage point in the apple tree. I was amazed at the little bird’s trust. It seemed to instinctively know I would do it no harm. Then, just as suddenly as before, the robin swooped down between my knees once again; bowed; extracted another morsel from the earth, and returned to his adopted perch in the apple tree. A few moments later, he (or was it she?) flew down to my feet for a third time, and then a fourth.
By then, I was beginning to sense that there was a deeper meaning to this very special experience. I looked-up at the robin and said “what are you trying to tell me, my little friend?” Twice more the bird flew down to the bare earth at my feet, and on his fifth visit, I heard a simple phrase in my mind’s ear. “Throw it away ... throw it away,” said a gentle voice. “Throw it away, and put the savings towards your work ... throw it away.”
It took me several more minutes to fathom, but as I took another puff on my half finished cigarette, I realised it was the cigarette itself I was being urged to throw away. For a while, I studied the remnants of the cigarette resting between my fingers, and again heard the voice in my mind’s ear say “throw it away”. At that point, I tossed the cigarette over the wall.
That was the very last cigarette I smoked. After a number of futile attempts to give-up smoking in earlier years - by then I was getting through at least forty a day - against all expectations, I had kicked the habit out of the blue. In one fell swoop … or should I say several swoops of a robin … I was free of the curse of smoking. Moreover, for the second time in less than a year, I had triumphed over an addiction.
To this day, I still wonder whether that little robin was the bearer of that simple message. Or was he accompanied by an unseen messenger? A messenger with a still, small voice?
Copyright: David Lowe (a.k.a. Lewis Adler) 2000
Image of robin courtesy Pixaby.com
Divorce can be an extremely unpleasant and unhappy experience. Indeed, after more than thirteen years of marriage, I lost a home and virtually everything in it; a business; a motor car, and ... most devastating of all ... two children. Nevertheless, when the decree absolute popped through my letter box in April 1982, I heaved a great metaphorical sigh of relief. At last the way was clear to build a fresh life with my new partner Jenny.
Within a few months, however, I was dealt a cruel blow. On July 10, 1982, I awoke to discover that the Bedford van containing my state-of-the-art mobile discotheque roadshow, and the accompanying record collection, had been stolen. The following day, the van was found on a housing estate two miles away. It was empty. Something in excess of £10,000 worth of equipment and records was gone forever, and I was crushed: ruined. My spirit had been broken. Deep down, I suspected that this traumatic event … on top of the long, drawn-out divorce-related stress … would take its toll. And I was right.
By the end of 1983, I was not only profoundly depressed, but I was also suffering frequent panic attacks, and an equally distressing mix of agoraphobia and claustrophobia. However, unbeknown to me at the time, those nightmarish symptoms were not a reflection of my general state of health. On the contrary, they were entirely due to the side-effects of a supposedly "mild sedative" prescribed by my former GP during the early stages of my divorce. I'd trusted him, of course. But how was he, or I, to know those little pills would cause far more serious problems than the one they were supposed to alleviate?
Consequently, I was losing all interest in life, and I seemed powerless to prevent the decline in what little remained of my sense of well being. Then, out of the blue, Jenny was offered voluntary redundancy from her place of work. She sold the house we were living in, and we moved from Bexley in Kent to Torquay in South Devon. However, my health continued to go downhill.
My abiding memory of 1984 is one of a waking nightmare of panic attacks, depression, disorientation and detachment, together with a longing for an end to all the suffering.
Then, one beautiful autumn afternoon, I retired to our spare bedroom in an effort to find solace in the blessed escape of sleep. Quite what happened during that short nap, I’m not sure. When I awoke, the early evening sun was streaming through the window and, for the first time in a couple of years, I opened my eyes and felt slightly lifted in spirit. It was as if I had been given a choice. Either I could stay or I could go. And if I chose to stay, the first thing I should do was wean myself off the aforementioned prescribed sedative.
Happily, by the Spring of 1985, I had succeeded in breaking what had become, in all respects, an unrecognized addiction to a prescribed drug. The panic attacks and other symptoms had become less frequent and, as a result, I was in a more positive frame of mind. So much so that, at breakfast one morning, as I stood looking out of the kitchen window, I was inspired to paint the decorative wall in our back garden. First, though, I had to transplant a honeysuckle bush that grew over a portion of the wall in question.
That objective achieved, I set-about the painting process itself. With paint brush in hand, and … almost continuously … a cigarette in the other hand, I worked steadily from the corner of the wall under the old apple tree, out towards the open garden. As I emerged from beneath the branches of the apple tree, my progress became more rapid. Several minutes later, I had reached the section of the wall which stood directly over the disturbed earth where the honeysuckle bush had grown.
It was then I noticed a movement out of the corner of my right eye. Looking-up, I saw a robin perched in the branches of the apple tree above, and slightly to the right, of my head. Leaning on my left hand, I said an affectionate “good morning” to the little bird, and then lit-up another cigarette. At that point I resumed the painting job. A few moments later, I was still sitting on my haunches painting furiously, when I heard the sound of fluttering wings close to my right ear, followed by a brown blur that flashed in front of my eyes.
Slightly startled, I looked down between my knees, and was astonished to see the robin looking back up at me. As if to acknowledge my close proximity, he gave a little robinesque bow; studied the bare earth at his feet for a second or two; dipped to pick-up a tiny morsel, and then flew back to his vantage point in the apple tree. I was amazed at the little bird’s trust. It seemed to instinctively know I would do it no harm. Then, just as suddenly as before, the robin swooped down between my knees once again; bowed; extracted another morsel from the earth, and returned to his adopted perch in the apple tree. A few moments later, he (or was it she?) flew down to my feet for a third time, and then a fourth.
By then, I was beginning to sense that there was a deeper meaning to this very special experience. I looked-up at the robin and said “what are you trying to tell me, my little friend?” Twice more the bird flew down to the bare earth at my feet, and on his fifth visit, I heard a simple phrase in my mind’s ear. “Throw it away ... throw it away,” said a gentle voice. “Throw it away, and put the savings towards your work ... throw it away.”
It took me several more minutes to fathom, but as I took another puff on my half finished cigarette, I realised it was the cigarette itself I was being urged to throw away. For a while, I studied the remnants of the cigarette resting between my fingers, and again heard the voice in my mind’s ear say “throw it away”. At that point, I tossed the cigarette over the wall.
That was the very last cigarette I smoked. After a number of futile attempts to give-up smoking in earlier years - by then I was getting through at least forty a day - against all expectations, I had kicked the habit out of the blue. In one fell swoop … or should I say several swoops of a robin … I was free of the curse of smoking. Moreover, for the second time in less than a year, I had triumphed over an addiction.
To this day, I still wonder whether that little robin was the bearer of that simple message. Or was he accompanied by an unseen messenger? A messenger with a still, small voice?
Copyright: David Lowe (a.k.a. Lewis Adler) 2000
Image of robin courtesy Pixaby.com
First Born: A Dramatic Arrival (true story)
SOMEHOW, from the moment the pregnancy was confirmed, I knew my first-born would be a little girl. Much more than a mere hunch, it was an unshakable, almost matter of fact conviction. At that time, I put it down to a kind of pipe dream which had its origins in my love of a song from the score of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s stage and film-musical Carousel. The song in question is entitled "Soliloquy", and it reflects on the subject of parenthood from the father’s perspective; especially in relation to the arrival of a baby girl. Little did I reailse, however, that the unshakable certainty I had in my mind heralded a truly remarkable event in my life.
By April 1969, it was becoming apparent that the baby was big ... very big! In fact, at one point, it was thought my wife was carrying twins. Later, however, we were told it was definitely just one baby, but there were complications. The infant was a breach presentation – bottom first – and it was at this point that the possibility of a Caesarean delivery was mooted.
My wife was admitted to Stonepark Maternity Hospital in Beckenham five days after the baby was due. Up to that moment in time, she had shown no signs of going into labour, so she was given a further twenty-four hours to settle-in. She was then placed on an induction drip. Within a couple of hours she was experiencing mild contractions, and these continued throughout the first day. At 7 pm that evening, the drip was removed to allow my wife to have a good night’s rest. Soon after breakfast the following morning, she was placed on the drip once again: only for the drip to be removed that same evening, for the same reason as the night before.
This on-off induction process continued for a further four days, yet my wife showed no signs of going into a full-blown labour. She did, however, become increasingly fatigued and emotional. By this time, I was beginning to get worried, and I expressed my concern to the ward sister, who assured me all was well. Nevertheless, something kept telling me all was not as well as it should have been.
At last, the consultant gynaecologist resolved that, if my wife hadn’t entered the latter stages of labour by tea-time on Wednesday June 18, her waters would be broken. I remained with her until the last moment, and then made my way to my parent’s council flat opposite Beckenham Place Park. There, Mum served-up a delicious evening meal, after which, the three of us – Mum, Dad and I – calmly discussed the events of the previous few days.
The telephone rang shortly after 6 o’clock, and I sprang to answer it. “Is that Mr David Lowe?” asked the disembodied female voice. “Yes,” I replied expectantly. “Ah ... hello Mr Lowe, this is the labour ward sister at Stonepark Maternity Hospital. I am calling to ask your permission for an emergency Caesarean to be performed on your wife”. A curious numbness raced through my body, and all I could hear echoing through my head was one word. “Emergency”.
“What do you expect me to say?” I blurted-out. “Yes, of course you have my permission. But what on earth is going-on? Is everything all right?” Mum clasped her hand to her mouth. She could see from my reaction, that things had gone terribly wrong. Dad reached out and placed his arm around Mum’s shoulder, while the hospital sister replied to my questions. “Yes Mr Lowe, everything’s okay ... at the moment,” she said.
Poor Dad; I had never known him to be lost for words, but when I repeated what I had just been told, he sank into his chair dumbfounded, and stared out of the window in disbelief. Mum was close to tears, but she sat me down in an armchair, and then retired to the kitchen to make a fresh pot of tea.
Half an hour later, I was becoming restless. “It’s no good I’ve got to get to that hospital. I can’t sit around any more waiting for another telephone call.” Both Mum and Dad understood, but Mum in particular gave voice to overriding concerns. “Oh, David,” she pleaded. “Do be careful on that motor-cycle of yours. Please take your time and make sure you don’t do anything silly.”
A few moments later, I was still re-assuring Mum and Dad that I would be okay, as I kick-started my BSA 350 motor bike. It roared into life and, with a wave, I began the two mile journey to Stonepark Hospital. All the way into Beckenham, I was praying out loud. “Please God, let them be safe. Please don’t take them from me. Please let them be safe.”
Turning left out of Beckenham High Street, I accelerated towards the hill that would, in turn, take me to the hospital entrance. Still praying out loud in the privacy of my crash helmet, I sensed in my mind’s ear, something – or someone – telling me to look at my wrist-watch. Releasing my grip on the handlebar, I raised my left arm, and noted it was exactly 6.45 pm. Then, as I placed my hand back on the handle-bar, I was suddenly engulfed in the most profound sense of peace I had ever experienced. It was as if I had been gently immersed in a warm bath. All the anxiety and anguish I’d been experiencing drained from the top of my head and out through the soles of my feet in an instant.
A fraction of a second later, I sensed a strange and powerful presence to my left, skimming along the roadway beside me. I couldn’t see anything, and there was no semblance of touch, but the words I heard in my mind’s ear were unmistakable. “Be at peace, my child, all is well. You have a beautiful baby daughter. All is well,” said the still small voice. Whoever he was remains a mystery to me to this day. But he was definitely a “he” and he was definitely there beside me. Moreover, he brought with him such love; such reassurance; such peace. I just knew my prayers had been answered.
Sitting quietly in the hospital’s reception area, I was eventually spotted by a nurse, who walked towards me with an enquiring look. “Are you Mr Lowe by any chance?” she asked. I smiled and nodded. “Oh good, I’ve been wondering if you were somewhere close by. Your wife is recovering from the general anesthetic at the moment. You’ll be able to see her in half an hour or so, but would you like to see your baby in the meantime?” “Yes please,” I replied.
“Okay, sit there for a while longer, and I’ll get someone to take you up to the nursery.” The nurse smiled, and turned away. She had only gone a step or two, when she stopped abruptly, spun on her heels, and said “By the way, Mr Lowe, don’t you want to know what model you’ve got?” I laughed out loud. “Model? Oh, I think I know already, nurse, but do tell me anyway.”
At first the nurse looked puzzled by my response, but soon put her bewilderment aside. “Why, you have a beautiful baby daughter Mr Lowe,” she announced excitedly. “She’s a big one, and she’s got a big cry too. In fact, it’s a wonder you can’t hear her from here!” We laughed together. Then, as the nurse was about to walk away, I remembered something important. Catching hold of her left elbow as she turned, I asked her if she knew what time the baby had been born.
Her reply proved, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that my experience on the way to the hospital had been very special indeed. “As it happens, Mr Lowe, I was assisting in the theatre when your little girl gave her first cry. I remember looking-up at the clock. It was exactly a quarter to seven.”
Copyright: David Lowe (a.k.a. Lewis Adler) 2000
Clock image: Author 2010
By April 1969, it was becoming apparent that the baby was big ... very big! In fact, at one point, it was thought my wife was carrying twins. Later, however, we were told it was definitely just one baby, but there were complications. The infant was a breach presentation – bottom first – and it was at this point that the possibility of a Caesarean delivery was mooted.
My wife was admitted to Stonepark Maternity Hospital in Beckenham five days after the baby was due. Up to that moment in time, she had shown no signs of going into labour, so she was given a further twenty-four hours to settle-in. She was then placed on an induction drip. Within a couple of hours she was experiencing mild contractions, and these continued throughout the first day. At 7 pm that evening, the drip was removed to allow my wife to have a good night’s rest. Soon after breakfast the following morning, she was placed on the drip once again: only for the drip to be removed that same evening, for the same reason as the night before.
This on-off induction process continued for a further four days, yet my wife showed no signs of going into a full-blown labour. She did, however, become increasingly fatigued and emotional. By this time, I was beginning to get worried, and I expressed my concern to the ward sister, who assured me all was well. Nevertheless, something kept telling me all was not as well as it should have been.
At last, the consultant gynaecologist resolved that, if my wife hadn’t entered the latter stages of labour by tea-time on Wednesday June 18, her waters would be broken. I remained with her until the last moment, and then made my way to my parent’s council flat opposite Beckenham Place Park. There, Mum served-up a delicious evening meal, after which, the three of us – Mum, Dad and I – calmly discussed the events of the previous few days.
The telephone rang shortly after 6 o’clock, and I sprang to answer it. “Is that Mr David Lowe?” asked the disembodied female voice. “Yes,” I replied expectantly. “Ah ... hello Mr Lowe, this is the labour ward sister at Stonepark Maternity Hospital. I am calling to ask your permission for an emergency Caesarean to be performed on your wife”. A curious numbness raced through my body, and all I could hear echoing through my head was one word. “Emergency”.
“What do you expect me to say?” I blurted-out. “Yes, of course you have my permission. But what on earth is going-on? Is everything all right?” Mum clasped her hand to her mouth. She could see from my reaction, that things had gone terribly wrong. Dad reached out and placed his arm around Mum’s shoulder, while the hospital sister replied to my questions. “Yes Mr Lowe, everything’s okay ... at the moment,” she said.
Poor Dad; I had never known him to be lost for words, but when I repeated what I had just been told, he sank into his chair dumbfounded, and stared out of the window in disbelief. Mum was close to tears, but she sat me down in an armchair, and then retired to the kitchen to make a fresh pot of tea.
Half an hour later, I was becoming restless. “It’s no good I’ve got to get to that hospital. I can’t sit around any more waiting for another telephone call.” Both Mum and Dad understood, but Mum in particular gave voice to overriding concerns. “Oh, David,” she pleaded. “Do be careful on that motor-cycle of yours. Please take your time and make sure you don’t do anything silly.”
A few moments later, I was still re-assuring Mum and Dad that I would be okay, as I kick-started my BSA 350 motor bike. It roared into life and, with a wave, I began the two mile journey to Stonepark Hospital. All the way into Beckenham, I was praying out loud. “Please God, let them be safe. Please don’t take them from me. Please let them be safe.”
Turning left out of Beckenham High Street, I accelerated towards the hill that would, in turn, take me to the hospital entrance. Still praying out loud in the privacy of my crash helmet, I sensed in my mind’s ear, something – or someone – telling me to look at my wrist-watch. Releasing my grip on the handlebar, I raised my left arm, and noted it was exactly 6.45 pm. Then, as I placed my hand back on the handle-bar, I was suddenly engulfed in the most profound sense of peace I had ever experienced. It was as if I had been gently immersed in a warm bath. All the anxiety and anguish I’d been experiencing drained from the top of my head and out through the soles of my feet in an instant.
A fraction of a second later, I sensed a strange and powerful presence to my left, skimming along the roadway beside me. I couldn’t see anything, and there was no semblance of touch, but the words I heard in my mind’s ear were unmistakable. “Be at peace, my child, all is well. You have a beautiful baby daughter. All is well,” said the still small voice. Whoever he was remains a mystery to me to this day. But he was definitely a “he” and he was definitely there beside me. Moreover, he brought with him such love; such reassurance; such peace. I just knew my prayers had been answered.
Sitting quietly in the hospital’s reception area, I was eventually spotted by a nurse, who walked towards me with an enquiring look. “Are you Mr Lowe by any chance?” she asked. I smiled and nodded. “Oh good, I’ve been wondering if you were somewhere close by. Your wife is recovering from the general anesthetic at the moment. You’ll be able to see her in half an hour or so, but would you like to see your baby in the meantime?” “Yes please,” I replied.
“Okay, sit there for a while longer, and I’ll get someone to take you up to the nursery.” The nurse smiled, and turned away. She had only gone a step or two, when she stopped abruptly, spun on her heels, and said “By the way, Mr Lowe, don’t you want to know what model you’ve got?” I laughed out loud. “Model? Oh, I think I know already, nurse, but do tell me anyway.”
At first the nurse looked puzzled by my response, but soon put her bewilderment aside. “Why, you have a beautiful baby daughter Mr Lowe,” she announced excitedly. “She’s a big one, and she’s got a big cry too. In fact, it’s a wonder you can’t hear her from here!” We laughed together. Then, as the nurse was about to walk away, I remembered something important. Catching hold of her left elbow as she turned, I asked her if she knew what time the baby had been born.
Her reply proved, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that my experience on the way to the hospital had been very special indeed. “As it happens, Mr Lowe, I was assisting in the theatre when your little girl gave her first cry. I remember looking-up at the clock. It was exactly a quarter to seven.”
Copyright: David Lowe (a.k.a. Lewis Adler) 2000
Clock image: Author 2010
Is This the "Dawning of the Age of Aquarius?" (a feature article)
ALL THE SIGNS are that we're getting very close indeed to the coming Age of Aquarius. Look at the image above and you'll see another one ... sign, that is.
Those of us of a certain age will, perhaps, recall the American vocal group the Fifth Dimension and their 1969 chart-topping hit “Aquarius – Let the Sun Shine In”. At the height of the Flower Power Era, the words of that song seemed to promise a new age of enlightenment for all mankind. Sadly, it didn’t quite happen at that time but, according to many astrologers we’re now on the threshold of another opportunity to change things for the better, once and for all.
Back in 1969, I was a Sunday school teacher and, in all honesty, I didn’t have a clue what the Fifth Dimension were on about when they sang “when the Moon is in the seventh house, and Jupiter aligns with Mars…” And, as for the title, what on earth was the Age of Aquarius anyway?
Forty-two years later, my Sunday school teaching days have long since passed into history, and I’ve moved-on from the Anglican Church. However, from the moment I walked away from the church in 1979, my life’s path has continued to follow a profoundly spiritual-mystical route. In fact, along the way, I’ve experienced some remarkable events, as already shared on this Weebly site … and there are more to come, so watch this space.
In the meantime, I’d like to explain the image at the top of this article, because it forms a tiny part of the spiritual-mystical journey alluded to in the above paragraph. Now, I’m not sure whether this is a familiar sight elsewhere in the world but, here in England, the “fish symbol” can be seen attached to many motor vehicles. The symbol represents the Age of Pisces and, in particular, the part played at the beginning of that Age by the historical Jesus of Nazareth. It is fairly safe to assume, therefore, that most – if not all – of those displaying the fish symbol on their motor vehicles here in the UK are practising Christians.
Okay, here's how the image came about. One day in 1999, I was caught in a traffic jam behind a motor car that had one of those fish symbols stuck to its boot (trunk) lid. As I studied the symbol, I suddenly realized that the abstract nature of the fish symbol could also represent a similarly abstract image of an amphora; a large clay vessel used in ancient Greece and Rome to carry water, oil or wine.
My next thought was: Given that the Age of Pisces is about to give way to the Age of Aquarius (the water carrier), that very same transformational passage of time could be represented – with the addition of a hint of liquid – by five fish symbols placed in a fan shape. A few days later, sitting at my personal computer, and using my birth name of David Lowe, I created the image I’d seen in my mind’s eye and it has lain on my private files ever since.
In the light of recent events … the Arab Spring; the Occupy Wall Street and Occupy London Stock Exchange movements, atc … plus the fascinating insights into the astrological aspects under-pinning them a number of my astrologer acqauintances have share with me, this seems an appropriate moment to share - in turn - that mind’s-eye image I created all those years ago.
Copyright: David Lowe (aka Lewis Adler) 2000
Image copyright: Author 1999
Those of us of a certain age will, perhaps, recall the American vocal group the Fifth Dimension and their 1969 chart-topping hit “Aquarius – Let the Sun Shine In”. At the height of the Flower Power Era, the words of that song seemed to promise a new age of enlightenment for all mankind. Sadly, it didn’t quite happen at that time but, according to many astrologers we’re now on the threshold of another opportunity to change things for the better, once and for all.
Back in 1969, I was a Sunday school teacher and, in all honesty, I didn’t have a clue what the Fifth Dimension were on about when they sang “when the Moon is in the seventh house, and Jupiter aligns with Mars…” And, as for the title, what on earth was the Age of Aquarius anyway?
Forty-two years later, my Sunday school teaching days have long since passed into history, and I’ve moved-on from the Anglican Church. However, from the moment I walked away from the church in 1979, my life’s path has continued to follow a profoundly spiritual-mystical route. In fact, along the way, I’ve experienced some remarkable events, as already shared on this Weebly site … and there are more to come, so watch this space.
In the meantime, I’d like to explain the image at the top of this article, because it forms a tiny part of the spiritual-mystical journey alluded to in the above paragraph. Now, I’m not sure whether this is a familiar sight elsewhere in the world but, here in England, the “fish symbol” can be seen attached to many motor vehicles. The symbol represents the Age of Pisces and, in particular, the part played at the beginning of that Age by the historical Jesus of Nazareth. It is fairly safe to assume, therefore, that most – if not all – of those displaying the fish symbol on their motor vehicles here in the UK are practising Christians.
Okay, here's how the image came about. One day in 1999, I was caught in a traffic jam behind a motor car that had one of those fish symbols stuck to its boot (trunk) lid. As I studied the symbol, I suddenly realized that the abstract nature of the fish symbol could also represent a similarly abstract image of an amphora; a large clay vessel used in ancient Greece and Rome to carry water, oil or wine.
My next thought was: Given that the Age of Pisces is about to give way to the Age of Aquarius (the water carrier), that very same transformational passage of time could be represented – with the addition of a hint of liquid – by five fish symbols placed in a fan shape. A few days later, sitting at my personal computer, and using my birth name of David Lowe, I created the image I’d seen in my mind’s eye and it has lain on my private files ever since.
In the light of recent events … the Arab Spring; the Occupy Wall Street and Occupy London Stock Exchange movements, atc … plus the fascinating insights into the astrological aspects under-pinning them a number of my astrologer acqauintances have share with me, this seems an appropriate moment to share - in turn - that mind’s-eye image I created all those years ago.
Copyright: David Lowe (aka Lewis Adler) 2000
Image copyright: Author 1999
Jenny's Driving Ambition (a true story)
Could this be one of the most remarkable expressions of love between two people ever told?
WHEN my partner Jenny and I set-up home together in early September 1980, I was aware of the fact that, since childhood, she had suffered terribly from the effects of epilepsy. I admired her strength in the face of such adversity, but it was a source of some sadness to me that her one ambition in life ... to obtain a provisional driving licence, pass her driving test and buy her own car ... seemed to be a dream that would never be realised.
By the middle of October 1980, it felt as if Jenny and I had been together for years. After the agonies of our respective failed marriages, we had both found security and happiness in each other’s company. In fact, we were inseparable. Even during my work as a disc jockey, Jenny would take-on the role of road crew member, carrying equipment in and out of venues on many of my mobile discotheque engagements around London and the south of England.
Returning home with her after a particularly tiring evening entertaining a singles club above the Green Man public house in Downham, South London, we promptly made a pot of coffee, and then both sank exhausted onto the sofa. Winding down after the events of the previous few hours, we sat in complete silence: Jenny resting her hand ... in which she held her mug of coffee ... on my left knee.
The first indication that something was wrong came when I felt her hand twitch. As I looked towards the mug of coffee perched on the top of my leg, Jenny’s hand twitched again, this time more violently. Instantly, the contents of the mug sprayed in an arc of piping hot liquid, soaking the lower half of my trousers and the carpet below. Simultaneously, Jenny stood up and took two steps towards the light on the wall opposite. She then let-out a heart-rending cry, and fell to the floor convulsing from the effects of a severe grand mal epileptic seizure.
For a while, I was rendered utterly helpless. The suddenness of it all placed me in a dream-like state; unable to take-in the reality of what was happening in front of my eyes. Standing with my hands clasping my face, I shook my head vigorously in an attempt to clear my mind. “My God, what do I do now?” I asked myself.
Suddenly, I remembered an incident some ten years earlier, when my daughter Jacqueline suffered a fit brought-on by the combination of a winter chill and teething. Jackie had stopped breathing, and her lips were turning blue, so I forced open her mouth and created an airway by holding her tongue in place with my index finger. The pain was excruciating. Later, when the doctor called to examine Jackie, he also inspected the damage to my finger. The doctor laughed when he told me, “An eighth of an inch the other way, and you’d have lost the top of it”. He then demonstrated to me how to respond if Jacqueline should fit again.
Little did I suspect that more than ten years would elapse before I’d be called upon to act on the doctor’s instructions. One moment Jenny was convulsing horrifically at my feet, while I stood helplessly looking-on. Then, a few seconds later, I was kneeling at her side and gently laying her in a recovery position. Gradually the convulsions ebbed away, and her wide-eyed expression gave way to a comparatively peaceful sleep-like countenance.
I remained kneeling beside her, stroking her forehead with the fingers of my left hand, while holding her free hand in my right. “Please God, don’t ever let this happen again” I whispered. “Please God, don’t ever let this happen again.” I guess I must have repeated my prayer a dozen times or more over the next few minutes. By then, Jenny was gradually regaining consciousness.
Gathering her up in my arms, I carried her upstairs and tucked her into bed. Then, I undressed and climbed into bed beside her and, for what seemed like hours, lay listening to her breathing, and watching for signs of another seizure ... which never came.
Five years later, Jenny and I had moved from Bexley in Kent, to Torquay in South Devon, where I had become part of the freelance presentation team on DevonAir Radio. Away from the studios, however, I was in an almost constant state of confusion. I felt I was being driven like a clockwork toy. Someone - or something - had placed an imaginary key in my back, wound it, and then set my feet on the ground for me to begin a truly bewildering journey.
I was convinced I was looking for something. But what exactly? All I knew for sure was it had a spiritual-mystical dimension, because I was constantly being drawn to such things in the local library, and esoteric shelves in book shops. Every spare minute was spent wracking my brain for a clue to the meaning of this strange hyper-activity. Then, out of the blue, came part of the answer.
Arriving home after another fruitless Saturday afternoon of “searching”, I retrieved the daily newspaper from the letter box, and threw it dejectedly onto the kitchen table. Thumbing through its pages, my eyes fell on a large panel containing church advertisements. There, in the middle of the panel was a box advert for Paignton Spiritualist Church showing a list of activities, including Saturday evening Clairvoyance.
Instantly, I knew Paignton Spiritualist Church was where I had to be that evening. But all my instincts rejected the idea. As a former church-goer and Sunday School teacher, all I could think was, what on earth would my old Anglican Church acquaintances say? And how would my former Sunday School teaching colleagues react if they could see me now? The more my head buzzed with these doubts, the more convinced I became that I was being powerfully led to Paignton Spiritualist Church for a purpose.
Contrary to my expectations, though, the church hall was full of perfectly normal, friendly people, many of whom extended a warm welcome to Jenny and me. As the evening got under way, a formidable-looking lady was introduced as the medium for that weekend; namely, the then President of Paignton Spiritualist Church, Lilian Hurst.
After a short prayer and a sung chorus, Lilian began to bring messages to those present. This was a completely new and fascinating experience for me, far removed from the rumours and dark innuendo I had heard about Spiritualism and its followers, during my Anglican Church days.
Indeed, here was genuine love, comfort and reassurance demonstrated in abundance by a lady who clearly possessed a remarkable gift. At first, I was thoroughly absorbed in her messages to others. But then I faltered. “Oh dear, I hope she doesn’t come to me,” I whispered under my breath. I then attempted to make myself smaller, by sinking lower in my chair. Now, this can be a very tricky undertaking for someone who is six foot six inches tall and weighs-in at more than two hundred and fifty pounds!
Almost inevitably, a few moments later, Lilian Hurst pointed in my direction. “Er, the young man in the yellow jumper...” she called. “M-me?” I stuttered. “Yes, you,” she insisted. “You’re involved in healing aren’t you.” “Healing? Me? No, I don’t think so,” I replied. Lilian’s response was emphatic. “Oh, but you are my son. I can see praying hands over your head, and there’s a beautiful light around your shoulders.” She then went-on to talk about my own delicate health situation at that time and assured me that, when I succeeded in … “getting everything on an even keel, if you wish to, you will be able to develop your healing gift”.
For once in my life I was utterly speechless but, even then, the penny didn’t drop. In fact, it took me a few more minutes to make the connection, and when I did, it hit me like a bolt from the blue. Sitting next to me was Jenny, who had not shown the slightest signs of epilepsy since that dramatic evening in October 1980. Now, nearly five years later, I was being told by a complete stranger that I possessed the very special gift of healing. Was it possible that I had somehow helped in the removal of Jenny’s epileptic condition? How could that possibly be? My head flooded with momentous questions, none of which I could answer. I therefore resolved to speak to Lilian at the end of the evening.
Standing with Jenny at the back of the hall, I related our story to Lilian Hurst, who nodded knowingly. “You see?” she said triumphantly. “I told you, you have a wonderful healing gift.” From that day onwards, Lilian took me under her wing. But that’s another story for another day.
Suffice it to say, nearly thirty years later, Jenny is still completely free of epilepsy. Oh, by the way, she passed her driving test at the third attempt on May 13, 1986. Since then, she has driven almost on a daily basis. Moreover, in 2011, she purchased her latest motor car - her fifth - a smart metallic blue Ford Fiesta hatchback.
Copyright: David Lowe (a.k.a. Lewis Adler) 2001
Image: Author (2011)
WHEN my partner Jenny and I set-up home together in early September 1980, I was aware of the fact that, since childhood, she had suffered terribly from the effects of epilepsy. I admired her strength in the face of such adversity, but it was a source of some sadness to me that her one ambition in life ... to obtain a provisional driving licence, pass her driving test and buy her own car ... seemed to be a dream that would never be realised.
By the middle of October 1980, it felt as if Jenny and I had been together for years. After the agonies of our respective failed marriages, we had both found security and happiness in each other’s company. In fact, we were inseparable. Even during my work as a disc jockey, Jenny would take-on the role of road crew member, carrying equipment in and out of venues on many of my mobile discotheque engagements around London and the south of England.
Returning home with her after a particularly tiring evening entertaining a singles club above the Green Man public house in Downham, South London, we promptly made a pot of coffee, and then both sank exhausted onto the sofa. Winding down after the events of the previous few hours, we sat in complete silence: Jenny resting her hand ... in which she held her mug of coffee ... on my left knee.
The first indication that something was wrong came when I felt her hand twitch. As I looked towards the mug of coffee perched on the top of my leg, Jenny’s hand twitched again, this time more violently. Instantly, the contents of the mug sprayed in an arc of piping hot liquid, soaking the lower half of my trousers and the carpet below. Simultaneously, Jenny stood up and took two steps towards the light on the wall opposite. She then let-out a heart-rending cry, and fell to the floor convulsing from the effects of a severe grand mal epileptic seizure.
For a while, I was rendered utterly helpless. The suddenness of it all placed me in a dream-like state; unable to take-in the reality of what was happening in front of my eyes. Standing with my hands clasping my face, I shook my head vigorously in an attempt to clear my mind. “My God, what do I do now?” I asked myself.
Suddenly, I remembered an incident some ten years earlier, when my daughter Jacqueline suffered a fit brought-on by the combination of a winter chill and teething. Jackie had stopped breathing, and her lips were turning blue, so I forced open her mouth and created an airway by holding her tongue in place with my index finger. The pain was excruciating. Later, when the doctor called to examine Jackie, he also inspected the damage to my finger. The doctor laughed when he told me, “An eighth of an inch the other way, and you’d have lost the top of it”. He then demonstrated to me how to respond if Jacqueline should fit again.
Little did I suspect that more than ten years would elapse before I’d be called upon to act on the doctor’s instructions. One moment Jenny was convulsing horrifically at my feet, while I stood helplessly looking-on. Then, a few seconds later, I was kneeling at her side and gently laying her in a recovery position. Gradually the convulsions ebbed away, and her wide-eyed expression gave way to a comparatively peaceful sleep-like countenance.
I remained kneeling beside her, stroking her forehead with the fingers of my left hand, while holding her free hand in my right. “Please God, don’t ever let this happen again” I whispered. “Please God, don’t ever let this happen again.” I guess I must have repeated my prayer a dozen times or more over the next few minutes. By then, Jenny was gradually regaining consciousness.
Gathering her up in my arms, I carried her upstairs and tucked her into bed. Then, I undressed and climbed into bed beside her and, for what seemed like hours, lay listening to her breathing, and watching for signs of another seizure ... which never came.
Five years later, Jenny and I had moved from Bexley in Kent, to Torquay in South Devon, where I had become part of the freelance presentation team on DevonAir Radio. Away from the studios, however, I was in an almost constant state of confusion. I felt I was being driven like a clockwork toy. Someone - or something - had placed an imaginary key in my back, wound it, and then set my feet on the ground for me to begin a truly bewildering journey.
I was convinced I was looking for something. But what exactly? All I knew for sure was it had a spiritual-mystical dimension, because I was constantly being drawn to such things in the local library, and esoteric shelves in book shops. Every spare minute was spent wracking my brain for a clue to the meaning of this strange hyper-activity. Then, out of the blue, came part of the answer.
Arriving home after another fruitless Saturday afternoon of “searching”, I retrieved the daily newspaper from the letter box, and threw it dejectedly onto the kitchen table. Thumbing through its pages, my eyes fell on a large panel containing church advertisements. There, in the middle of the panel was a box advert for Paignton Spiritualist Church showing a list of activities, including Saturday evening Clairvoyance.
Instantly, I knew Paignton Spiritualist Church was where I had to be that evening. But all my instincts rejected the idea. As a former church-goer and Sunday School teacher, all I could think was, what on earth would my old Anglican Church acquaintances say? And how would my former Sunday School teaching colleagues react if they could see me now? The more my head buzzed with these doubts, the more convinced I became that I was being powerfully led to Paignton Spiritualist Church for a purpose.
Contrary to my expectations, though, the church hall was full of perfectly normal, friendly people, many of whom extended a warm welcome to Jenny and me. As the evening got under way, a formidable-looking lady was introduced as the medium for that weekend; namely, the then President of Paignton Spiritualist Church, Lilian Hurst.
After a short prayer and a sung chorus, Lilian began to bring messages to those present. This was a completely new and fascinating experience for me, far removed from the rumours and dark innuendo I had heard about Spiritualism and its followers, during my Anglican Church days.
Indeed, here was genuine love, comfort and reassurance demonstrated in abundance by a lady who clearly possessed a remarkable gift. At first, I was thoroughly absorbed in her messages to others. But then I faltered. “Oh dear, I hope she doesn’t come to me,” I whispered under my breath. I then attempted to make myself smaller, by sinking lower in my chair. Now, this can be a very tricky undertaking for someone who is six foot six inches tall and weighs-in at more than two hundred and fifty pounds!
Almost inevitably, a few moments later, Lilian Hurst pointed in my direction. “Er, the young man in the yellow jumper...” she called. “M-me?” I stuttered. “Yes, you,” she insisted. “You’re involved in healing aren’t you.” “Healing? Me? No, I don’t think so,” I replied. Lilian’s response was emphatic. “Oh, but you are my son. I can see praying hands over your head, and there’s a beautiful light around your shoulders.” She then went-on to talk about my own delicate health situation at that time and assured me that, when I succeeded in … “getting everything on an even keel, if you wish to, you will be able to develop your healing gift”.
For once in my life I was utterly speechless but, even then, the penny didn’t drop. In fact, it took me a few more minutes to make the connection, and when I did, it hit me like a bolt from the blue. Sitting next to me was Jenny, who had not shown the slightest signs of epilepsy since that dramatic evening in October 1980. Now, nearly five years later, I was being told by a complete stranger that I possessed the very special gift of healing. Was it possible that I had somehow helped in the removal of Jenny’s epileptic condition? How could that possibly be? My head flooded with momentous questions, none of which I could answer. I therefore resolved to speak to Lilian at the end of the evening.
Standing with Jenny at the back of the hall, I related our story to Lilian Hurst, who nodded knowingly. “You see?” she said triumphantly. “I told you, you have a wonderful healing gift.” From that day onwards, Lilian took me under her wing. But that’s another story for another day.
Suffice it to say, nearly thirty years later, Jenny is still completely free of epilepsy. Oh, by the way, she passed her driving test at the third attempt on May 13, 1986. Since then, she has driven almost on a daily basis. Moreover, in 2011, she purchased her latest motor car - her fifth - a smart metallic blue Ford Fiesta hatchback.
Copyright: David Lowe (a.k.a. Lewis Adler) 2001
Image: Author (2011)
A Christmas Miracle (a true story)
Miracles do happen! And sometimes it's the power of prayer at the controls.
But ours is not to reason why ... or how.
WE all knew dad was terminally ill, and so did he. Despite two major gastric operations, the cancer had spread to his liver, and there was nothing more the surgeons could do for him. After half a lifetime of indifferent health, and at the age of just fifty-four, dad was moving inexorably towards that last great mystery that confronts us all at the end of our journey here on earth. Nevertheless, he was bearing his burden with great dignity and courage, yet mum and I still made sure we were there for him in those rare moments when his resolve threatened to desert him.
Christmas 1970 was fast approaching, and dad’s symptoms were growing worse with the passing of every day. For several months he had been unable to eat solid foods. Now, even liquid sustenance was causing him great distress. The prospects for a happy festive season were bleak indeed.
Mum tip-toed out of the bedroom and carefully closed the door behind her. Gently resting her index finger against her lips, she turned to indicate to me that dad was sleeping peacefully. Moments later, the anguish on mum’s face seemed to grow in intensity, and she whispered, “David, what can we possibly do to make dad’s Christmas more comfortable?”
Playing for time, I replied, “Leave it with me, mum, I’ll give it some thought.” In truth, I didn’t know what thoughts might enter my mind, or what – if any – solutions might be found in answer to mum’s heartfelt plea. However, I knew there was a very special place near at hand, where I could contemplate her question and its profound implications.
At that time, I was a Sunday School teacher at St John’s Anglican Church in Penge, south east London. I enjoyed round-the-clock access to that cavernous, neo-gothic building, and so I knew at once that, that was there I would be able to find the kind of peace and solitude to confront a truly challenging moment in my life.
Later that same day, I sat in the tranquility of St John’s Church, drinking in the aloneness of the moment while, at the same time, searching for the words to express my deepest thoughts. Eventually, as if from afar, I heard myself softly offering-up a simple prayer. “Lord, we know it’s going to be dad’s last Christmas here on earth, and we want so much to make it a peaceful and joyous time for him. Please grant him some relief from his symptoms, so he might enjoy at least a little Christmas Fayre.” After several more minutes of quiet contemplation, I walked out of the church, and into the noise and haste of a south London rush hour. Nevertheless, deep down in my heart, I was at peace. I knew my prayer had been heard.
Two days later ... December 21, 1970 ... mum telephoned me at home. Her voice was hushed, and full of hesitation, as she alerted me to an unexpected development. “David: look, I’m not quite sure what to make of this, and I don’t want either of us to get our hopes up too much, but dad hasn’t shown any symptoms since yesterday morning. He has even had a bowl of vegetable soup today, plus a couple of cups of tea, and he hasn’t once complained of feeling nauseous. Do you think it’s worth getting-in a turkey and a few Christmas goodies after all?” My response was emphatic. “Yes, mum, I think that’s a wonderful idea!”
Within the hour, mum and I were in the local supermarket loading our trolley with vegetables, fruit, nuts, crisps, mince pies and soft drinks, not to mention bottles of assorted wines, beers and spirits. A can of Ye Olde Oak Ham was also high on the agenda, as was pork sausage meat, and ... of course ... a turkey big enough to feed a small army.
Our shopping expedition was not complete, however, until mum had purchased a special Christmas card for dad, plus a bottle of his favourite cream sherry. With every passing minute, I felt a growing certainty that my intercession in St John’s Church just two days earlier was being answered in a remarkable way. Consequently, I was in two minds. Should I tell mum about the prayer I had offered-up for dad? Or should I simply place my trust in that inner voice which seemed to be saying, “Be at peace, my son, there’s no need to tell her.” Needless to say, the trusted inner voice won the day.
Christmas Eve morning arrived, and mum telephoned me to report that dad was still free of all the symptoms he’d been suffering until just four days previously. My wife and I, together with our two year old daughter Jacqueline, arrived at mum and dad’s council flat opposite Beckenham Place Park at four o’clock that same afternoon. Jacqueline was already excited and full of expectation over what Father Christmas might be bringing her. And, to be spending Christmas at Nana and Nandad’s home! Well, that was something extra special for her: a genuine Christmas surprise.
We all enjoyed a light supper, while the turkey cooked in the oven, filling the whole flat with that distinctive Yuletide aroma. Dad even remarked on his appetite, and how he was looking forward to Christmas Dinner. A little later in the evening, he tried a sip or two of brandy. Much to everyone’s delight, he suffered no adverse effects, so mum presented him with an early Christmas gift: his bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream sherry.
One small glass-full was sufficient to last dad the rest of the evening, but he showed a little less temperance when it came to another of his favourite tit-bits. Salted peanuts! For as long as I had known him, dad couldn’t resist salted peanuts. And on that Christmas Eve, he quietly munched his way through two medium-sized bags full.
It was just like the Christmas Eve's of old. A cosy, rosy, warm and cheerful evening, full of laughter and background music courtesy of Perry Como, Andy Williams and Tony Bennett, among others. For several hours, we were all lifted high above the trauma of dad’s terminal illness, and into the light of a traditional family Yuletide gathering. In fact, more of the same was to follow.
For the first time in six months, dad ate a proper cooked meal on that Christmas Day, but not before he’d polished-off a home-made prawn cocktail starter, plus a glass or two of white wine. A small portion of Christmas pudding with single cream followed the main course, after which dad went-on to enjoy a Christmas Night laced with the odd mince pie, several more glasses of sherry, a couple of brandies and, yes, another bag of salted peanuts. I couldn’t recall how long it had been since I’d seen him eating and drinking so heartily. However, not once did he complain of nausea or discomfort.
In fact, dad thoroughly enjoyed himself over that Christmas and New Year period, and he remained entirely free of symptoms until January 3, 1971. In the weeks that followed the debilitating symptoms that had disappeared so suddenly on December 20 began to re-appear and, at length, he was admitted to St Christopher’s Hospice in Sydenham. He passed away peacefully on the evening of June 23, 1971, but more than forty years on, I continue to feel his presence in my quieter moments.
These days; especially when December comes around, I still find time to ponder the extraordinary events of Christmas 1970. Given that dad was so desperately ill, with the effects of those strength sapping symptoms convulsing his poor body for many months previously; some slight relief over that festive period would have been a welcome respite for us all. However, against all the odds, that hoped-for slight relief had been overtaken and dad’s symptoms had completely disappeared for a period of two full weeks. Surely, that speaks of one thing only: a truly remarkable Christmas miracle!
Copyright: David Lowe (aka Lewis Adler) 2001
Photo: Henry Joseph Lester ("Les") Lowe ... World War II portrait 1943
Town Living in England (a nostalgic, tongue-in-cheek feature article)
Adventurous Childhood
GROWING up in the south eastern suburbs of London during the 1950s was, I seem to recall, a largely carefree experience. Always the loner, I would think nothing of climbing onto my Raleigh bicycle, and riding off to spend half a day or more exploring the vast expanses of my home town.
Favourite Destinations
It really didn’t matter to me whether my journey took me across Westminster Bridge and past the Houses of Parliament, or Tower Bridge and the Tower of London, or through the Blackwall or Rotherhithe tunnels, or even aboard the Woolwich Free Ferry. No, all I cared about was the marvellous sense of self determination to go wherever I chose to go. More often than not, this taste of freedom was accompanied by the anticipation of, perhaps, making a new discovery. Maybe I would locate a previously unvisited museum? Or a park with playground swings and a lake? Or an urban brook where I could lose myself hand-fishing for sticklebacks?
Then there were those memorable occasions when I managed to find a way, Raleigh bike and all, through the perimeter fencing encircling the World War II Battle of Britain airfield Biggin Hill. Aircraft were my great passion, and air displays were, without doubt, one of the highlights of my childhood. However, when there were no air displays on offer, I’d simply jump onto a Green Line bus and traipse twenty miles across the outskirts of London to watch the comings and goings at – the then – partly tented Heathrow Airport.
Writing these words, I can still feel the palpable mixture of wanderlust and excitement that embraced me as I left behind, for a fleeting few hours, the challenges of an unhappy home environment. Today, I thank God for those escapades, because they kept me sane, and instilled in me a grim determination to endure all those childhood hardships through to adulthood, and on to what I perceived then as total independence.
So Different Today
Fifty-odd years on, however, it’s a completely different story for pre-and-early teens in all towns, let alone the London of my youth. The streets, parks and heaths are still there, but they are no longer the safe havens they used to be: the sheer volume of traffic has seen to that. Then there’s the violence ... alcohol or drugs related ... and the seemingly constant news reports of abductions and disappearances. No wonder so many of today’s parents have become over-protective to the point of paranoia. Consequently, their children spend much of their time gazing into television and PC screens, or manipulating hand-held computer games, instead of exploring the world outside.
Pluses
Nevertheless, town living still has its up-side. For starters, all the essential amenities are usually within easy reach. Shops, hospitals, schools, restaurants, cinemas, sports facilities, theatres, swimming baths and public transport too: all are close at hand for the townie.
Minuses
But there are still a few drawbacks for some. Take, for instance, the town dwelling jogger or power walker, especially the novice who, on a whim, decides to shed a few pounds by plodding the pavements close to home. Has it ever occurred to him or her that taking exercise alongside a busy road may be tantamount to smoking a couple of extra strong cigarettes? Think of all the damage those diesel and other fumes may be doing to his or her lungs.
Then there’s the question of unnecessary noise. Boy racers in souped-up autos, with windows lowered, and a two thousand watt in-car sound system blasting out the latest dance floor track (they all sound the bloomin’ same to me). Or the inconsiderate neighbour who throws open his or her windows and treats everyone within several hundred yards to constant replays of Bonnie Tyler’s Total Eclipse of the Heart or Chris de Burgh’s Lady in Red. Nightmare, or what?
More Pluses
In hindsight, I seem to be making a good case here for not living in a town. However, there will always be some who thrive on the noise, the pollution and the danger of town living. To them it’s an extreme sport: an adrenaline rush that starts at 7 a.m. with the clock radio’s rude awakening, and ends sometime after midnight in a lingering red wine glow surrounded by a small mountain of aluminium take-away food containers.
At least he or she will have something to celebrate. After all, to have triumphed over another day without being knocked down by a truck, mugged in an alleyway, or poisoned by traffic fumes, is a feat in itself. No-one can suggest to them that they ‘ought to get out more’ because they have been there, done that, and worn-out a few T-shirts in the process. To them, life in the town or city is just what the doctor ordered, and they can’t get enough of it.
More Minuses
Rather them than me, I say. Mind you, I still live in an urban environment, although my adoptive hometown is much, much smaller than the London of my childhood. Torquay is a seaside resort in the far south west of England. It’s all very picturesque and they call it the English Riviera, but there’s a big downside. One of the most irritating things about living in a coastal town in England is the seagulls. Of all God’s creatures, size-for-size seagulls are one of the noisiest, messiest and most aggressive of species. Their incessant, tuneless screams and squawks, frequent bickering and ear-splitting alarms calls can – and do – shatter the peace of many a pleasant summer’s afternoon in the garden. At the same time, those deeply unpleasant sounds drown-out the other, far more agreeable birdsong, especially during the spring nesting season. And the downside doesn’t end there, because seagull droppings are not only voluminous, they’re corrosive too. In fact, they can eat their way through motor vehicle bodywork quicker than acid rain.
You can’t blame the gulls, though, because they seem to know when they’re onto a good thing. They’re scavengers and, given the upsurge in the number of fast food outlets all over Britain in recent years, plus the tendency of inconsiderate humans to throw half-eaten take-aways onto the street, the seagulls in coastal towns now congregate and nest on town-centre rooftops, instead of rocky cliff faces a few miles away.
Conclusion
Needless to say, their presence just inland in ever greater numbers can make an awful mess of any newly cleaned car. And, as for the noise pollution caused by their raucous squawking and squealing, at all hours of the day or night? Well, I don’t mind telling you, it’s enough to have this expatriate Londoner hankering, once again, after the dubious delights of England’s capital city.
Copyright: David Lowe (aka Lewis Adler) 2012
Photo: London View. Copyright: Author 2011
Country Living in England (a nostalgic, tongue-in-cheek feature article)
Introduction
TO most city dwellers in England, the attractions of an idyllic life in the countryside will remain the stuff of which dreams are made. For an increasingly lucky few, however, such dreams have become a reality, thus enabling them to purchase cottages or other property, for weekend breaks or even retirement, in rural surroundings. Meanwhile, the rest of us are left to daydream about the perceived advantages of the country life, if only to be prepared in the unlikely event of our lottery ticket coming-up trumps.
The Pluses
So, what are the advantages to living in the country, as opposed to the city? Well, for starters, the air is cleaner. At this point, I find my mind’s eye conjuring-up images of waking gently at dawn, leaping from my bed, and throwing open the window to take-in a lung full of fresh morning air. Suddenly, my mind’s ear takes over, and I realise I am being greeted by a dawn chorus of birdsong so uplifting, it brings a broad smile to my face.
As the dawn chorus fades, it is replaced by the occasional crowing of a cockerel, and the distant bleating of a sheep, not to mention that most countrified of all country sounds, the lowing of cows, as they plod their way to the milking shed. Suddenly, a nearby church bell chimes to remind me it’s time for that hearty English breakfast. But hang on a moment. Do you notice what’s missing? Yes, that’s right … traffic noise.
With a little research and aforethought, there are still rural locations in England where traffic noise, and all those other undesirable – and often unnecessary – city noise factors can become a dim and distant memory. In the country, you can actually hear yourself think, unless that is, you’re standing within shouting distance of a working combine harvester. But then, by taking a lazy stroll a few hundred yards further down the lane, all will be birdsong, sunshine and the rustle of leaves in the trees again.
Another advantage to life in the countryside becomes evident at night. Given even a partially clear sky, the stars shine and twinkle as bright as diamonds, and certainly as no city dweller will have seen, except perhaps in a planetarium. There’s no substitute for the real thing, however. Indeed, I have been known, while driving through the country late at night, to stop in lay-by and gaze-upwards in awe at the sheer splendour of the starry dome above my head. Even after all these years, to see the Milky Way draped like a chiffon scarf across the night sky, still has me cooing with schoolboy wonderment at one of life’s truly great spectacles.
Perhaps, though, the most obvious advantage to life in the countryside, is the pace of life itself. In the city many of us are dragged kicking and screaming into the slipstream of a daily routine conducted at breakneck speed. Try as we might, we can’t seem to escape the cycle and, sooner rather than later, the rush and hurry around us turns us all into the human equivalent of worker ants: hyper-active and anonymous.
A few hours in the country, however, can change all that. Like some half forgotten discipline, the ability to relax creeps up on us until we discard our wrist watches, laptops, mobile phones, and maybe even the sleeping pills and tranquilisers. At last, we learn to take each hour as it comes, instead of hurtling into each minute as if it is our last. Such is the therapeutic potential of the countryside.
The Minuses
Unfortunately, there are always drawbacks to any given scenario, and life in the country is no exception to that rule. For example, successive governments have ensured that country dwellers, by and large, have much farther to travel for the bulk of their shopping. Until recently, rural communities could rely on the village shop to provide most of their daily needs, but in recent years traditional village stores have been vanishing at an alarming rate: the victims of aggressive price cutting by the big supermarkets.
Similarly, the village Post Office is becoming a thing of the past, as our well intentioned government unwittingly – or otherwise – dreams-up additional ways of creating a new legion of unemployed while, at the same time, attempting to beat the benefit cheats.
Then there are the twin issues of travel and the weather. If you live in the country, and you don’t drive, you’re stuffed, because the buses run – at best – a couple of times a day, or at worst, they don’t run at all. As for the weather, you’ll need to equip yourself for extremes. When it’s summery in the country, it is idyllic. In the winter, however, it can be horrendous.
Conclusions
So, here’s the rub. If you’re a car or motor-cycle owner, and you have access to the internet: essential if you wish to maintain contact with the outside world. Also, if you love the open air, and mother nature in all her guises – good and bad – then the country life is definitely for you. If not, don’t even think about it.
Copyright: David Lowe (aka Lewis Adler) 2012
Photo: On the banks of the River Dart in Devon. Copyright: 2012
Goin' Home - A Message in the Music
(a true story)
Beautiful music conveys a message many miles that all is well
WHEN I first became part of the DevonAir Radio freelance team in 1984, I was invited by the radio station’s manager to produce and present the Monday to Friday "Nightwatch" programme from 9pm to midnight. My plan was to develop a relaxed music and chat format, with plenty of scope for the listeners to contribute by way of regular phone-in competitions and dedications. Little did I realise, however, my ideas would find favour with my audience quite so quickly, and in such a pleasing way.
Within a couple of weeks, I had become familiar with the names of a number of regular callers, but one in particular stood-out in my mind. In fact, I could almost set my wrist watch by her call. At around ten-past-ten each evening, a lady calling herself "Butterfly" would telephone my studio assistant and ask for a dedication to … “all those listening to the programme on their own”.
Not long afterwards, other listeners began to catch-on to the compassionate nature of Butterfly’s dedication by making supportive dedications of their own. In doing so, they adopted similar animal-related pseudonyms including Hedgehog, Mouse, Caterpillar and Owl. Eventually, these sobriquets became so numerous I began to experience some difficulty in remembering who was who. So, as an aid to brevity, I decided to collectively christen them my Nightwatch Menagerie. Happily, this arrangement met with their unanimous approval.
Over the ensuing weeks the Nightwatch Menagerie – in common with the rest of the programme’s audience – became a tight-knit local radio family; often sharing each other’s joys and woes over the airwaves. But, for me, Butterfly remained something of an enigma. In fact, after several months of transmitting her nightly dedication to everyone listening on their own, my curiosity got the better of me, and I set-out to discover who this mysterious lady really was. It didn’t take me long. I managed to locate her within a few days. Butterfly’s real name was Heather, and at that time she lived in a charming cottage in the village of Kingsteignton near Newton Abbot in Devon. In fact, Heather quickly became a very dear friend and confidante.
In fact, that friendship strengthened still further when my mother became terminally ill in 1989. Heather – who was then a practising bereavement counselor – helped me to find the strength to endure a particularly stressful few months. Mum passed away on the evening of March 22, 1990 and a couple of days later, Heather telephoned me to make a promise. On the afternoon of Mum’s funeral in London – some 250 miles from our homes in Devon – she would walk to the ancient church of St Michael, just a few yards from her home in Kingsteignton, and there she would sit quietly for an hour, from 3pm.
I said au revoir to Mum on a beautiful spring afternoon at the Hither Green Crematorium in South London. At exactly 3.50pm, as we filed slowly out of the chapel, the Largo from Antonin Dvorak’s New World Symphony – which, during the 1980s, had been used as the incidental music to a famous UK TV advertisement for Hovis bread – was playing softly over the chapel’s public address system.
Recognising that familiar and beautiful piece of music moved me deeply. After all, I had first heard the gentle rise and fall of that exquisite melody drifting from my parent’s radiogram when I was just eight years old. It had instantly become a personal favourite, and I later discovered that lyrics had been added to the melody by William Arms Fisher, who titled it Goin’ Home. Hearing that delightful piece of music once again at such a pivotal moment in my life was powerfully re-assuring.
By 11pm that same evening, my wife Jenny and I were safely back home in Devon. The following morning dawned sunny and spring-like again and, at around 10.30am, Heather telephoned to check that all was well. Moments later our conversation revealed that a quite remarkable event had taken place less than 24 hours earlier.
“I did as I promised,” announced Heather. “But it was such a beautiful afternoon I decided to sit on a bench in the churchyard instead of sitting inside the church itself. The sun was streaming through the new leaves on the willow branches; the brook was gently babbling at my feet, and a robin was singing in a nearby chestnut tree. It was absolutely idyllic,” she added poetically.
Before I could respond to Heather’s heart-warming description, she continued, “Then, quite suddenly, I began to hear in my mind’s ear, the most marvellous music. I don’t know whether you know it, David, but it’s the Largo from Dvorak’s New World Symphony. And it is also known as Goin’ Home.”
For a second or two, I was rendered speechless. But then I excitedly asked Heather if she’d noticed the time. “Funny you should ask that, my dear,” she replied. “As I became more and more aware of the music in my mind’s ear, I looked first at my wrist watch, and then at the church’s steeple clock. It was exactly ten-to-four!”
Copyright: David Lowe (aka Lewis Adler) 2001
Photo Copyright: The Author
A Sane Scientist Speaks (feature article)
Why are both the scientific world and the Western media ignoring this British scientist's findings?
A Captivating Story
HISTORY is peppered with great scientific theories that, at first, have been frowned upon, but have then gone-on to be proved entirely correct. All too often, however, the theorists have pre-deceased the acclaim their discoveries eventually received, and others have conveniently stepped-in to take the credit.
My hope is that such an injustice won’t happen in this particular instance. Let me explain: in my thirty-two years as a radio broadcaster and writer, I came into contact with a wide variety of people from virtually every walk of life, but never was I so captivated, than by a story told to me by a highly qualified research scientist who I shall call CR.
The Scene is Set
Late in 2012, I received an e-mail from CR who, in addition to asking me to feature a specific recording on one of my BBC radio programmes, went-on to suggest that he was "persona non-grata" in the eyes of the UK media. That strange parting remark by him aroused my curiosity, so I replied to his e-mail by asking him to tell me more. What followed was one of the most compelling scientific arguments I have ever read, and one CR has given me permission to share with you here on my Weebly website.
The Background
Until his retirement in the 1980s, CR had worked for more than 20 years in the UK Civil Service as a high-ranking water pollution research chemist. After retiring, CR set-up his own research facilities with a view to investigating and quantifying the extent to which air pollution was present in the indoor environment. In order to do this, he used his knowledge of the analytical methods used by the sewage treatment industry. Consequently, by collecting and analysing condensed water vapour, he was able to quantify levels of indoor air pollution within many homes throughout the British Isles. During these investigations he researched, in considerable depth, the unusual behaviour of a common substance called polymeric formaldehyde, which became activated by a static electrical charge, or electro magnetism, or on exposure to a fluctuating magnetic field … or a combination of all three.
That discovery encouraged CR to broaden his investigations into polymeric formaldehyde by also studying its behaviour – and the circumstances necessary for its appearance as an environmental pollutant – in enclosed spaces like homes and offices, as well as in the open air. As part of this research, he was particularly interested in its effects on, not only humans, but also animals, plant life, and electrical circuitry.
Ignored and Ridiculed
However his findings have been almost completely ignored by the scientific establishment and the media in general. Indeed, at best, it has even been suggested to him that his scientific theories are far too alarming to be made public and, at worst, he has been labelled as a nutter … a mad scientist.
Research Findings
So what is polymeric formaldehyde, and what are these ‘alarming’ effects its activation can have? Put simply, we all have formaldehyde polymers on and within our bodies, and it is kept in equilibrium by the electrical output emanating from our brain. In a healthy individual polymeric formaldehyde ranges between 30 and 60 milligrams per kilogram of body hair. However, if the body becomes contaminated with chemically unstable polymeric formaldehyde, that figure can jump to 300 mg per kg.
CR’s research seems to show that such contamination can be triggered by the electro-magnetic radiation (in the frequency range of 100 to 1000MHz) as is used in a myriad of modern day domestic, electronic devices. His research findings also point to contamination being triggered by our experience of the variations in the earth’s magnetic fields, especially when we travel across time zones. Furthermore, CR states that those variations can also be caused by cometry debris, satellites and space junk orbiting the planet interrupting the Solar wind. To illustrate his point CR cites jet lag as a disturbance of our body chemistry, brought about by the above mentioned variations in magnetic pulses.
Most significant of all, according to CR’s findings, polymeric formaldehyde contamination can be seen to influence the onset of such serious human health issues as MS, Alzheimer’s, depression, asthma, allergies, AIDS and even Sudden Infant Death syndrome (cot death). And it doesn’t end there, because CR is convinced that polymeric formaldehyde contamination is also at the heart of extreme human behaviour: several recent and highly publicised examples of which have resulted in the tragic deaths of dozens of children and young people in the USA and Scandinavia. Another aspect to CR’s research findings points to polymeric formaldehyde contamination having been responsible for such natural disasters as Dutch elm disease, Ash tree die-back and even the Irish potato famine of the 1840s.
Detection and Decontamination
So, how can polymeric formaldehyde contamination be detected in human beings, and how can decontamination be achieved? According to CR’s research, a simple test on a strand of human hair, or in a bead of body sweat is sufficient to reveal abnormal levels in a contaminated individual. His recommendations for decontamination range from vigorous exercise like cycling, running or contact sports, followed by a thorough shower, or a bath laced with a little vinegar and sulphur dioxide, to horse riding, swimming, gardening (ideally in your bare feet); yoga or meditation. CR also advocates washing newly purchased clothing before wearing it and making sure there’s a circulation of fresh air in one’s bedroom. A small window left slightly open is sufficient to provide the necessary air-flow and thereby prevent contamination.
In His Own Words
CR says “Polymeric formaldehyde is, I believe, an essential component of all living matter … humans, animals, plants and microbes. In humans it is kept in equilibrium by the electrical output of the brain. Too much and we become hyper-activated, and prone to disease, as our body biochemistry becomes an attractive diet and environmental habitat for malignant organisms to thrive. Too little and we are dead.”
Why So Much Indifference?
Given that CR’s painstaking research over several decades has pointed to so many detrimental effects on human health, one wonders why the scientific establishment and the media on both sides of the Atlantic have ignored him and his findings. Even those scientists who have tested CR’s theories have, so far, failed to confirm or deny their veracity. What are they afraid of? More importantly, what are they trying to hide from us?
Copyright: Lewis Adler (aka David Lowe) 2013
Photo: Jet Lag copyright: Author 2006