Prednisone, your dangerous little friend.


You wake up to find your house on fire.  Desperately you run from room to room but there is no way out.  When you think all is lost, when you are screaming for help which never comes, a stranger smashes down your door and hauls you to safety in the street.  The cool night air relieves your pain.  You have no clothes, no shoes, your house still burns.  But the stranger has thought of everything.  He hands you a bundle of things rescued from the flames, and soon you are ready for your journey, clothed, with even your watch, a hat, and the comforting feel of a fat wallet in your pocket.  You turn to thank your saviour but then you see it is not only your house which has burned but the whole city is ablaze.  Only the stranger knows a safe way through the conflagration so you are in his hands.

My name, he says, is Methyl/prednis/ol/one but you can call me Pred.  I am your friend.

Your dangerous, two-faced, necessary friend.

Soon after you start your escape together he points at your coat pocket and says, let me see your wallet.  And because he is strong and imposing and has saved your life you hand it to him.  Later he decides he fancies the coat itself, and later still you have to give up your belt, and then, although you need it against chill of winter or heat of sun, your hat.  Worse is when he takes your glasses and now the way becomes blurred.  You know you are near the outskirts of the city and hope you can shed this acquisitive companion but then you see that even the suburbs, and the countryside, are dotted with small fires.  As if to emphasize your need for him a cinder lands at your feet and as the debris underfoot flares up Pred stamps it out.  He’s with you for the long haul.

As you continue on your way time seems to change its nature.  You have to live each moment as it comes, not daring to look too far ahead, afraid of how long this unwanted unplanned journey will be before all the fires are left behind.  And every so often Pred asks for another item from you.  For a while you limp along with one shoe until he evens you out by taking the other.  But what good are shoes without socks, he says.  Soon you have nothing left, you are as naked as you were when you were pulled from the fire.  But you notice your companion seems less substantial now as though he is fading out of existence and you dare to look ahead.

There is a village nestled beside a lake.  You can walk down a hill to it, over a sward of soft, cool, green grass.  In the distance is the sea.

I’ll leave you now says Pred.  Although he is nearly transparent his voice is as strong as ever. Without a hint of irony he says, go rest in that place, get yourself a new suit of clothes, you’ll need it.  He notices you still have your watch.  I’ll have that off you, he demands.  And with it go all the days and months and years during which he was your thieving guide.

You walk away from him but turn to say goodbye.  He did save you, after all.  Just before he winks out of your life he says, his voice strong and real, maybe we’ll meet again some day.




From an early age I visualized life as a path.  Why would that be?  It implies that everything is set out for me and I have only to walk along the prescribed route….  And yet, there have been crossroads, roads taken, others left unexplored.  Today I look at that thought: life is a path, and see that path dwindling, a narrow track leading into a bog, and eventually disappearing.

Sixty nine sun circlings have I seen


Today I think, this is the first time I have not welcomed a birthday. But is it not better than having no birthday, not being here to feel fear of aging?  I think about the promising young man, damaged in an accident, who will not live the life he believed would be his.  I sorrow for the young woman who may not live to see her small children grow to independence.  The best, the only, service I can do for these and others is to rejoice in the fact of my existence.  I am here, still competent to see blossoms on trees, feel sun or  rain upon my skin, observe wasps amongst the raspberries, a dragonfly flitting, fleet as my life.  I am still here to watch starlings on the lawn or listen to the cry of seabirds riding in the ocean of air.  I am still here to smell fresh earth as life awakens in springtime, and the fragrance of lilacs or lilies.  This gesture to appreciate the life I have been blessed with is perhaps the only gift that I can bring to this world; a profound sense of gratitude that I am here, in this place, at this time, out of all the universe, a fragile moment carved out of eternity.

“How do you know but ev’ry Bird that cuts the airy way, Is an immense world of delight, clos’d by your senses five?”


How lucky I am to live where I do.  Even in this urban setting there are places and moments where a wider world breaks into my consciousness.  Walking beside Dartmouth Cove one day I heard small waves lapping against stones and that gentle sound seemed to still other noises.  I became aware of dry grass beneath my feet, frozen ground, birds on the water and in the sky.   I wondered whether other creatures are, like us, focussed only on their own immediate needs, the desires of the self.  Or are they like William Blake’s bird, “an immense world of delight clos’d by … senses five”?  An animal knows nothing of Mozart or Michaelangelo.  What cares she for Austen or Shakespeare, Copernicus or Curie?  Yet perhaps she is forever finely  tuned to rhythms, colours, seasons which great human minds harvest and weave into wonders for the rest of us.