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Apollo Mission 1

05 Monday Oct 2026

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A Place For Us—A melancholy musical episodic intro to the Father O’Way Chronicles

FATHER O’WAY
Apollo Mission I
Space.
There are words which improve considerably when somebody else is involved.
Space is one of them.
I had no objection whatsoever to space.
I thought space was magnificent.
I supported space.
I had looked at photographs of it.
I had watched documentaries about it.
I was entirely in favour of other people going there.
“I’m not going,” I said.
Gordon nodded.
“That’s understandable.”
“Good.”
“You’ll need to bring some clothes.”
I looked at Billy.
“He does this a lot?”
“Constantly.”
Gordon put his fingers to his mouth.
He did that whenever he was thinking.
Unfortunately he thought quite a lot.
“I suppose three shirts would be enough.”
“I said I’m not going.”
“And underwear.”
“Gordon.”
“Probably more underwear than shirts.”
Billy nodded.
“Sensible.”
“You can both bugger off.”
Merv placed another beer in front of me.
“Travelling, Sandy?”
“No.”
“Right.”
He put a second beer beside it.
Merv had known me for some time.
The following morning Gordon was sitting at my kitchen table.
I had not invited him.
Belinda had.
This was disturbing.
More disturbing was the fact that she appeared to like him.
Gordon had covered the table with papers, diagrams, notebooks and something with flashing lights which was occupying the space normally reserved for toast.
Belinda put tea in front of him.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
I looked at her.
“You made him tea?”
“Yes.”
“He wants to send me into space.”
“I know.”
“And you made him tea.”
“He asked nicely.”
This was how betrayal entered the modern home.
I sat down.
“All right. Explain.”
Gordon brightened.
This was a mistake.
Never tell an academic to explain.
They take it personally.
“I’m studying the universe.”
“Yes.”
“For my PhD.”
I waited.
“That’s it?”
“Essentially.”
“You’re God.”
“Gordon.”
“Your initials are G.O.D.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“You apparently come from another dimension.”
“Yes.”
“You can appear and disappear.”
“Within limits.”
“You know things that haven’t happened yet.”
“Sometimes.”
“And you’re doing a PhD?”
Gordon looked mildly offended.
“One needs qualifications.”
“For what?”
“Academic credibility.”
I stared at him.
Somewhere in the universe, apparently, there was a university prepared to tell God that his understanding of creation required peer review.
I found this enormously reassuring.
“What’s the thesis?”
Gordon shifted some papers.
“Well…”
There was the word again.
I looked at Belinda.
“That ‘well’ always costs me money.”
Gordon produced a graph.
Across the bottom were numbers.
Up one side were more numbers.
A red line wandered through the middle without displaying any obvious desire to arrive anywhere.
“This,” he said, “represents the relationship between cricket and the fundamental structure of the universe.”
I looked at it.
“No, it doesn’t.”
“It may.”
“That’s different.”
“Yes.”
“What relationship?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Excellent thesis.”
“Which is why I need data.”
He pulled out another sheet.
“This is the average score in one-day cricket.”
I looked again.
“And?”
“This is the average number of baked beans in a four-hundred-and-forty-gram tin of baked beans in tomato sauce.”
Silence.
Belinda leaned over my shoulder.
“There’s a difference.”
“Yes,” said Gordon.
“How much?”
“That’s what I’m trying to establish.”
I looked from one to the other.
“Has anybody considered simply counting the beans?”
Gordon stared at me.
Belinda stared at me.
I had apparently said something scientifically naïve.
“You can’t just count them,” Gordon said.
“Why not?”
“Sample error.”
“Buy another tin.”
“Brand variation.”
“Buy several.”
“Regional variation.”
“Buy them in different places.”
Gordon smiled.
“Exactly.”
I realised what had happened approximately three seconds too late.
“No.”
“I need a field researcher.”
“No.”
“Someone capable of travelling.”
“No.”
“Observing local customs.”
“No.”
“Collecting samples.”
“No.”
“Writing reports.”
“No.”
“And understanding cricket.”
I hesitated.
Belinda sighed.
Gordon saw it.
“There.”
“There what?”
“That.”
“What?”
“You hesitated.”
“I like cricket.”
“Excellent.”
“It does not mean I want to spend the rest of my life travelling around the universe counting baked beans.”
“We may count other things.”
“That doesn’t help.”
Belinda picked up the graph.
“What am I doing?”
I turned to her.
“You’re doing nothing.”
Gordon said, “I was hoping you’d come too.”
“No.”
Belinda ignored me.
“As what?”
“Research assistant.”
“No.”
“Logistics.”
“No.”
“Documentation.”
“No.”
“And Sandy management.”
Belinda considered this.
“What does that pay?”
“BELINDA.”
She looked at me.
“I’m negotiating.”
“There is nothing to negotiate.”
Gordon pushed another piece of paper towards her.
Belinda read it.
Her eyebrows rose.
“Accommodation included?”
“Yes.”
“Meals?”
“Yes.”
“Travel?”
“Obviously.”
She looked at me.
“We’re going.”
“No, we are not.”
She tapped the paper.
“Free accommodation.”
I stopped.
Gordon knew his audience.
The bastard.
Three days later I was standing in a field.
I had expected Cape Canaveral.
I had expected rockets.
I had expected gantries, technicians, enormous tanks of fuel and somebody called Houston.
Instead we were outside Inner Cyberia beside a shed.
There were sheep.
One of them looked at me in a way I considered unnecessarily judgemental.
“Where’s the spacecraft?” I asked.
Gordon pointed at the shed.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“That’s a shed.”
“It looks like a shed.”
“It has CORRUGATED IRON on it.”
“Camouflage.”
“Against what?”
“Council inspectors.”
That made considerably more sense.
Gordon opened the doors.
Inside was a spacecraft.
I would like to describe it accurately.
I can’t.
Partly because I am a priest and not an engineer.
Mostly because Gordon seemed to have designed it during several unrelated periods of enthusiasm.
Bits of it were smooth and futuristic.
Other bits looked as though they had been purchased from an electrical wholesaler on a Friday afternoon.
There were lights.
Screens.
Switches.
Dials.
A lever marked DO NOT MOVE.
Another marked MOVE ONLY IF NECESSARY.
And one small switch labelled:
PROBABLY IMPORTANT
Belinda climbed aboard.
“It’s bigger inside.”
Gordon smiled.
“Yes.”
I remained outside.
“No.”
Belinda leaned back through the hatch.
“Oh, come on.”
“No.”
“You’ve travelled further for worse reasons.”
“Name one.”
“France.”
Fair point.
Gordon stood beside me.
“You’ll enjoy it.”
“Have you ever noticed that everybody who says that is standing somewhere safe?”
He climbed aboard.
I looked at the field.
The sheep.
The blue sky.
Inner Cyberia.
Earth.
Earth had faults.
Quite a few.
It contained bishops.
Committees.
Television advertising.
Religious conferences.
People who stopped suddenly in supermarket aisles.
But it had gravity.
I was very fond of gravity.
“Sandy!” Belinda called.
I climbed aboard.
The hatch closed behind me.
I immediately wanted it open again.
Gordon sat at the controls.
Belinda was beside him.
I was strapped into something which resembled an airline seat designed by a chiropractor with a grievance.
“Where are we going?”
Gordon checked several instruments.
“Initially?”
I disliked that word.
“Yes. Initially.”
“The Moon.”
I relaxed slightly.
“The Moon?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not too bad.”
“It’s quite close.”
“Exactly.”
“Relatively.”
I stopped relaxing.
“How relatively?”
Gordon flicked a switch.
Something deep beneath us began to hum.
“Gordon.”
“Yes?”
“One final question.”
“All right.”
“Have you done this before?”
He thought about it.
“With this spacecraft?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
I reached for the straps.
Belinda was already tightening hers.
“Gordon.”
“Yes?”
“Why is this called Apollo Mission One?”
He smiled.
“Tradition.”
“Whose?”
“Yours.”
The humming became a roar.
The shed disappeared.
The field disappeared.
The sheep disappeared.
For one remarkable moment I could see the entire curve of the Earth beneath us.
Blue.
White.
Beautiful.
Silent.
I forgot Billy.
I forgot baked beans.
I forgot cricket.
I forgot that the man at the controls was an interdimensional postgraduate student who had never flown his own spacecraft before.
I simply stared.
Belinda took my hand.
Neither of us said anything.
Then Gordon looked at the instrument panel.
“Oh.”
I turned slowly.
“What does ‘oh’ mean?”
“Probably nothing.”
A red light began flashing.
PROBABLY IMPORTANT
I looked at Gordon.
He looked at me.
Belinda looked at both of us.
And somewhere behind the wall, something said:
“Good afternoon.”
I froze.
“Gordon.”
“Yes?”
“Who was that?”
Gordon smiled nervously.
“Ah.”
The voice spoke again.
“Would the new passengers like to meet the crew?”
I looked out at the Earth rapidly getting smaller behind us.
Then at Gordon.
Then at Belinda.
Then at the wall.
Apparently we had a crew.
Nobody had mentioned a crew.
And that was how Apollo Mission One began.
Not with one small step for man.
Not with the triumph of human exploration.
But with me strapped into a spacecraft built by God while travelling towards the Moon to count baked beans.
In retrospect, the warning signs were quite clear.

Good Luck With That – Space Travel and How Boring It Really Is

02 Friday Oct 2026

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RUDOLPH — Relativistic Universal Dimensional Operations, Logistics, Propulsion & Habitat

GOOD LUCK WITH THAT
Space Travel and How Boring It Really Is


Episode One — The Beginning of Time, More or Less


I was staring out the window when I suddenly realised that the window was staring at me.
This was unusual, even by the standards of Rudolph.


Rudolph had opinions about most things. He disliked parking, distrusted comets and had once refused to enter a wormhole because, in his words, “it looked damp.” But until that moment I had not known he was capable of judging me through reinforced neuroplastic transparency.


“You’ve been looking at the same star for forty-three minutes,” said Nick.
Nick was the ship’s SANTA — Sub Atomic Neuroleptic Transparent Android — which was the sort of acronym people invent when they have far too much intelligence and absolutely no adult supervision.
“I’m thinking.”
“You are sulking.”
“I am contemplating existence.”
“You are sulking about existence.”
There was no point arguing with a navigation computer that could calculate six million routes across four dimensions and still remember where you had left your socks.


Outside the window, space continued.
It did this very well.
Space is often described as vast, majestic, awe-inspiring and full of wonders.
This is because the people describing it are usually standing on a planet.
From inside a spaceship, space is mostly black.
Occasionally something twinkles.
Very occasionally something explodes.
The rest of the time it is the astronomical equivalent of waiting for a bus that is three light-years late.


I am Gordon O’Donnell.
Initials G.O.D.
Yes, I know.
No, I didn’t choose them.
My parents did.
They thought it was funny.
My parents were academics.
Academics should not be allowed to name children.
I came from Meup, a perfectly respectable planet orbiting the sun Star T.
Star T. Meup.
Again, not my fault.
I grew up on the island of Never Stop, whose capital city was Running Hot, beside the broad and unnecessarily dramatic river Grown Men Cry.
If these names sound suspiciously familiar, there is a reason.
Many years later, on a small blue planet in a minor galaxy, I met a musician called Mick. We drank. We talked. I told him about home.
Some time afterwards he released a song.
There are moments in life when one learns something important about copyright.


Meup was old.
Very old.
So old that mountains had retirement plans.
Its oceans had been there long enough to become cynical.
The sky was a deep violet in summer and a slightly annoyed mauve in winter. Great silver forests covered the northern continents, their leaves turning to face the twin magnetic poles every afternoon with a faint metallic hiss, like billions of teaspoons being rearranged in a drawer.
People on Meup did not hurry.
There was little point.
We lived, for practical purposes, forever.
Accidents happened, of course. Falling masonry remained surprisingly committed to tradition. But age itself was considered more of a scheduling issue than a terminal condition.
I entered university when I was five hundred and twelve.
My mother cried.
My father said I was too young.
My grandmother said she had always suspected I was impulsive.
The University of Meup was built on a plateau above Never Stop, overlooking the river and, on clear days, the King’s Dome on Heaven.
Heaven was our moon.
The King’s Dome was the largest cricket ground in our part of the dimension.
This caused considerable confusion among later civilisations, particularly after several of my early translations were copied badly.
People began talking about the Kingdom of Heaven.
Close enough.
The Dome itself seated two hundred thousand people, although crowds of three hundred thousand were common because Meupian mathematics had a relaxed attitude to fire regulations.
Cricket mattered on Meup.
Religion came and went.
Empires rose and fell.
Entire branches of theoretical physics were disproved before lunch.
But cricket remained.
The final of the Inter-Island Test Championship could stop wars.
Usually because both armies wanted to watch it.


I studied Astrophysics 101 under Professors T.D. Schnitzel, C. Chips and G. Salad.
They were serious people.
This was unfortunate.
My classmates were Gees Ass and Holly Ghost.
We were not serious people.
This was also unfortunate.
Our first major assessment was to create a universe.
Nothing elaborate.
Just matter, energy, space, time, a few laws of physics and enough uncertainty to keep future scientists employed.
We were given a black box.
Later it became a shoebox.
University budgets are mysterious things.
Into the box we introduced a compressed singularity, three contradictory equations, a jar of dark matter and something Gees Ass found in the back of a laboratory refrigerator.
There was a flash.
Then another flash.
Then an expanding cloud of incandescent matter began producing galaxies at an alarming rate.
Professor Schnitzel looked inside.
“Promising,” he said.
Professor Chips adjusted his glasses.
“Untidy.”
Professor Salad asked whether we had filled in the risk assessment.
We had not.
Thus began the universe.
Not with a divine command.
Not with cosmic intention.
Not even with a particularly good plan.
It began because three students were trying to pass a subject.


For several million of your years we forgot about it.
This is easier than it sounds.
Universes are very small from the outside.
Eventually I checked the box and discovered that planets had formed.
Some had life.
One had developed cricket.
This changed everything.
I leaned closer.
Tiny creatures in white clothing were standing on a green field, hitting a red ball with pieces of wood.
I called Gees Ass.
I called Holly Ghost.
We watched for six hours.
Professor Salad found us.
“What are you doing?”
“Research.”

He stared into the box.
A batter drove through cover.
Professor Salad sat down.
My thesis was approved the following morning.
Cricket in the Milky Way.
There remained one difficulty.
I had to go there.
You cannot simply step into a universe you have created.
Scale becomes a problem.
Also gravity.
Also exploding.
So the university constructed the Schnitzeliser, a machine designed to reduce a Meupian body to a size compatible with the internal dimensions of the experiment.
Professor Schnitzel assured me it was safe.
Professor Chips said, “Probably.”
Professor Salad left the room.
I regarded this as a mixed review.


Then came Rudolph.
Built by the Reindeer Company of Meup, he was silver, sharp-nosed and vastly over-engineered, with a sub-atomic wind drive, dimensional transit core, observation dome, cricket bay and a forward sensor array contained inside a glowing red nose.
The nose was not decorative.
It glowed because of relativistic particle compression.
The fact that it also made the ship look like a festive animal was, according to the engineers, “an unfortunate branding convergence”.


Nick(a.k.a SANTA) came with the ship.
He appeared as a translucent blue figure when he felt theatrical, which was often.
“Destination?” he asked.
I looked down at the little universe in its box.
Somewhere inside it, stars burned.
Planets turned.
Civilisations argued.
And on one particular planet, eleven men had just appealed for leg before wicket.
“Earth,” I said.
Nick paused.
“Good luck with that.”
The Schnitzeliser began to hum.
Rudolph’s red nose lit.
The laboratory stretched away from me.
Or perhaps I fell into it.
There was a moment of extraordinary light, followed by a noise like the universe clearing its throat.
Then silence.
Real silence.
Space silence.
The sort of silence that makes you aware of your own heartbeat and immediately suspicious of it.
I opened my eyes.
Ahead lay billions of stars.
Behind me lay another dimension.
Nick appeared beside the console.
“Well,” he said.
“Well what?”
“You wanted space travel.”
“Yes.”
He gestured towards the window.
“There it is.”
I stared.
For ten minutes nothing happened.
Then twenty.
Then thirty.
A tiny star moved slightly to the left.
I began to understand something nobody had mentioned in the university brochure.
Space travel was going to be incredibly boring.
The window stared back at me.
And, this time, I was fairly certain it was laughing.

Further O’Way

21 Monday Sep 2026

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What me worry, I'm on a mission from GO'D.
What, me worry, I’m on a misson from GO’D.

A Place For Us—A melancholy musical episodic intro to the Father O’Way Chronicles

Owning a passport was the worst mistake I ever made.

At the time it seemed harmless.

A small blue booklet.

Photograph.

Date of birth.

Several pages apparently provided so that foreign governments could record the precise order in which I made a fool of myself.

I kept it in a drawer at St Generic Brand and thought no more about it.

Then Billy became Bishop Bishop.

Promotion did not improve him.

It gave him a larger office, a secretary who disliked him professionally, and access to a drinks cabinet he regarded as a sacrament.

The Bish had also taken up herbal medicine.

At least that was what he called it.

I called it smoking dope with the window open.

One afternoon I was summoned to the diocesan offices.

Billy was behind an enormous desk wearing purple robes and holding a glass containing something the colour of furniture polish.

A thin cloud hung above him.

“Incense?” I asked.

“Medicinal.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Administration.”

Fair enough.

He poured me a drink.

I declined.

He looked hurt and poured it for himself.

“Sandy, how would you like to travel?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Excellent.”

Billy had retained an irritating habit from childhood of interpreting any answer he disliked as agreement.

“The Pig’s Arms needs a foreign correspondent.”

“Why?”

“Merv says international affairs are becoming important.”

“Merv is a barman.”

“He has a television.”

This was apparently sufficient qualification.

I knew the Pig’s Arms well. Officially it was the Window Dresser’s Arms Pig and Whistle, but language exists to communicate efficiently and life is too short.

“What does this have to do with me?”

Billy opened a folder.

Inside was a photocopy of my passport.

I stared at it.

“How did you get that?”

“God moves in mysterious ways.”

“You took it from my desk.”

“Mostly through unlocked drawers.”

“I’m not a journalist.”

“You can write.”

“I can write sermons.”

“No one reads those either.”

He had me there.

Billy pushed an airline ticket across the desk.

“Kerobokan.”

“Where?”

“Barley.”

“Bali?”

“That too.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“There’s an Australian woman in jail. Shappy Corebee.”

“For what?”

“Smuggling thugs.”

“Drugs.”

“That’s what I said.”

“No, you said thugs.”

Billy looked at the file.

“Either way, Australia has plenty. Get her out.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You’re fired.”

“You can’t fire me.”

“I’m a bishop.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“It usually does.”

And that was how the international career of Father Alexander Leonard Lyndhurst O’Way began.

Not with a calling.

Not with a revelation.

With a return economy ticket and a threat to my accommodation.

• • •

Barley was an island in Donesia.

Donesia had once been voted one of the most corrupt countries in the world, narrowly defeating several sporting organisations and a municipal planning department.

I landed at Nazi Goering Airport.

[Author: Sandy.]

[Sandy: What?]

[Author: You know perfectly well what.]

[Sandy: It was called that in the original.]

[Author: Carry on. I’m merely establishing an alibi.]

My instructions from the Bish gave me the names of two private investigators.

Beef Satay and his brother Chicken.

Their office was above a restaurant.

This caused confusion at lunchtime.

Beef was short and serious.

Chicken was taller and nervous.

Both came with peanut sauce.

“The Bish says you know the island,” I said.

Beef nodded.

“We know everybody.”

“Good. I need information about the prison.”

“We can get information.”

“Excellent.”

“Cost extra.”

Naturally.

The following morning Beef telephoned my hotel.

“We have uncovered high-level criminal activity, hookers, corrupt officials, money changing hands and inappropriate reporting procedures.”

“Beef, I asked you to investigate the prison, not an Australian trade union.”

There was silence.

“Ah.”

“Anything useful?”

“The governor likes money.”

“That’s hardly intelligence.”

“In Donesia it is a national philosophy.”

Eventually I arranged to meet the prison governor, Berguling Gado Gado.

His secretary answered the telephone.

“Name?”

“O’Way. Sandy O’Way.”

“Thank you, O’Way Sandy O’Way.”

“No. Just Sandy O’Way.”

“Very good, Just Sandy O’Way.”

“No, my name isn’t Just—”

I stopped.

Experience has taught me there are moments when language becomes a hole and the wisest course is not to continue digging.

Governor Gado Gado greeted me warmly.

I decided to get straight to the point.

“Governor, what would it take to have Shappy released?”

“Certainly.”

That was easier than expected.

He opened a diary.

“I can offer 27 July 1965, 8 February 1982 or 1 August 2003.”

I stared at him.

“Those dates have already happened.”

“Yes.”

“She wasn’t in prison then.”

“Correct.”

“So how can you release her?”

He smiled.

“You asked for a release date. You did not specify future.”

This was my first serious exposure to international diplomacy.

I began to understand why wars lasted so long.

We negotiated.

I pleaded.

I threatened ecclesiastical consequences, which impressed neither of us.

Finally Gado Gado leaned across the desk.

“You are priest?”

“Administratively.”

“You believe in God?”

“No.”

He blinked.

“Then why priest?”

“Accommodation.”

He considered this.

“Very sensible.”

We had found common ground.

Shappy was not released.

But I returned to Inner Cyberia with several jars of satay sauce, a wooden carving I could not identify and a receipt for expenses which the diocesan accountant refused to process because Beef and Chicken Satay appeared under “catering.”

Billy called the mission a success.

“Shappy’s still in jail.”

“You came back alive.”

“Is that the new standard?”

“It gives us room to improve.”

Then he handed me another ticket.

• • •

China.

Billy wanted me to interview a senior official named Hu.

“Who?”

“Exactly.”

“Who am I interviewing?”

“Hu.”

“That’s what I’m asking.”

“No, Hu is who you’re interviewing.”

“I know that. Who?”

“Hu.”

This continued for some time.

Belinda eventually entered the room carrying tea.

She listened for approximately thirty seconds.

“Would either of you like me to hit the other one?”

We stopped.

Belinda had become my housekeeper some years earlier.

Housekeeper was still technically accurate in much the same way that the Titanic was technically a form of transport.

She organised the rectory, organised me and had begun displaying disturbing signs of having opinions about my continued survival.

“You only just got back,” she said.

“I know.”

“And now you’re going to China?”

“Apparently.”

“Why?”

“Hu.”

She closed her eyes.

“Don’t.”

China went surprisingly well.

This worried me.

Whenever one of Billy’s assignments went well, it generally meant I had misunderstood the assignment.

I met Hu.

Or possibly Wu.

There were translators.

At one point seven officials conferred for ten minutes over whether I had asked about human rights or the correct way to cook noodles.

The answer I received appeared to cover both.

I filed six hundred words to the Pig’s Arms.

Merv published twenty-three of them beside the meat raffle results.

My career in international journalism was flourishing.

• • •

I had been home four days when the telephone rang.

“Sandy. Bish.”

“I recognised the slurring.”

“I need you in Lourdes.”

“France?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Religious story.”

“No.”

“I’ve already booked you.”

This time I took precautions.

I wrote LOURDES — FRANCE in large letters.

I put the note in my pocket.

I checked it before leaving the rectory.

I checked it in the taxi.

Then I met a cricket enthusiast at the airport.

Several hours later I was standing outside Lord’s Cricket Ground in London.

I telephoned Billy.

“I’m at Lord’s.”

“Good.”

“There’s a match on.”

“What?”

“Cricket.”

There was a pause.

“Sandy, I sent you to Lourdes.”

“That’s where I am.”

“No. LOURDES.”

“Exactly. Lord’s.”

“In France.”

I looked at the cricket ground.

“Parts of the MCC are fairly conservative, Billy, but I don’t think they’ve actually annexed it.”

The line went quiet.

Then I heard him pouring something.

“Stay there.”

“Why?”

“Find a religious angle.”

I watched an opening batsman leave three deliveries outside off stump.

“I’ve just witnessed a man place enormous faith in something he cannot see.”

“Perfect. File six hundred words.”

Merv printed forty-one.

Progress.

• • •

The Tour de France assignment occurred because Billy had discovered package fares.

He rang while I was still in England.

“You’re already in Europe.”

“I’m already regretting Europe.”

“Tour de France.”

“I don’t own a bicycle.”

“You won’t be riding.”

“That’s the first good thing you’ve said.”

My journalistic brief was to investigate allegations that professional cyclists were using artificial means to improve performance.

I interviewed a rider.

“Do you take performance-enhancing drugs?”

“No.”

“Have you ever taken performance-enhancing drugs?”

“No.”

“Would you tell me if you had?”

“No.”

This was refreshingly efficient.

I sent the interview to Merv.

He published the final answer.

It became one of my most widely read pieces.

• • •

Rome followed.

I don’t remember agreeing to Rome.

I have subsequently come to believe Billy simply redirected my luggage.

The Vatican was hot.

Very hot.

My clerical shirt stuck to me.

I discovered that centuries of theological scholarship had failed to produce an adequate doctrine regarding perspiration.

There was a fountain.

I looked at the fountain.

The fountain looked at me.

[Author: Fountains don’t look.]

[Sandy: You weren’t there.]

[Author: Neither was the fountain, once you’d finished with it.]

The important thing is that I cooled down.

The less important thing is that a Swiss Guard objected.

The even less important thing is that somebody photographed it.

By the time I returned to my hotel, the photograph had been transmitted internationally under the headline:

AUSTRALIAN PRIEST TAKES REFRESHING APPROACH TO ROME

Billy rang.

“You’re on television.”

“Good television?”

“There is no good television involving a priest without trousers.”

“I had trousers.”

“Not according to Channel Nine.”

“They were wet.”

“That distinction has not survived editing.”

Back home, Belinda kept the newspaper clipping.

She claimed this was for legal reasons.

For several months it appeared mysteriously whenever we had guests.

• • •

My next assignment involved cricket.

This cheered me enormously.

Geoffrey Boycott was involved.

This cheered Geoffrey Boycott considerably less.

I had been sent to discuss batting.

I like batting.

Batting is one of the few activities in human civilisation where avoiding danger while somebody else does all the work is considered technically correct.

Boycott and I understood one another immediately.

He believed in occupying the crease.

I believed in occupying the rectory.

Neither of us saw any reason to leave voluntarily.

We talked for hours.

Mostly Geoffrey.

At some point a coat hanger became involved in a demonstration of the forward defensive.

There was an accident.

The headline said Boycott had been “hung up by Father O’Way.”

This was inaccurate.

He was not hung.

He was caught temporarily.

There is an important difference in both cricket and criminal law.

Billy congratulated me.

“You’re developing a profile.”

“I’m developing extradition problems.”

“Same thing in journalism.”

• • •

Between trips I came home.

Or, more accurately, I returned to Belinda’s supervision.

The rectory changed while I was away.

Belinda had moved things.

She called it cleaning.

I called it destruction of navigational landmarks.

“Where’s my blue shirt?”

“Wardrobe.”

“It was on the chair.”

“That’s why I put it in the wardrobe.”

“How am I supposed to find anything if you keep putting things where they belong?”

She stared at me.

Belinda was very good at staring.

Eventually she asked, “How long are you home this time?”

“I don’t know.”

The telephone rang.

We both looked at it.

“No,” she said.

“It might not be Billy.”

It was Billy.

“Sandy—”

“No.”

“The Oval.”

“No.”

“Cricket.”

I hesitated.

Belinda pointed at me.

“Don’t you dare.”

“What sort of cricket?”

She walked out.

This is how relationships develop.

• • •

The Oval assignment was different.

I noticed that almost immediately.

For one thing Billy’s instructions made even less sense than usual.

I was supposed to locate something called a Stat-o-matic.

“What is it?”

“No idea.”

“What does it do?”

“No idea.”

“Who wants it?”

Billy paused.

“A friend.”

This was new.

Billy’s friends generally wanted money, bail or access to the diocesan cellar.

“Which friend?”

“You’ll know him when you see him.”

This statement is universally made by people who have failed to provide useful information.

I went to the Oval.

There was cricket.

There were statistics.

There were men who could tell you the batting average of someone who had played two Tests in 1927 on Tuesdays following rain.

Eventually I found the Stat-o-matic.

Or it found me.

That part remains unclear.

And then I saw the man in the flat cap.

White laboratory coat.

Fingers near his mouth.

A face that tugged at something very old in my memory.

A Mintie wrapper.

A boy.

A conversation that could not possibly have happened.

The man smiled.

“Hello, Sandy.”

I stared at him.

“Do I know you?”

“Yes.”

“Should I?”

“Eventually.”

I disliked him immediately.

Not personally.

I simply dislike people who answer questions as though time is optional.

“You’re Billy’s friend?”

“He knows me.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

“No.”

That was somehow worse.

He took the Stat-o-matic.

“What do you want with it?”

“Research.”

“What sort?”

“Cricket.”

This was the first sensible thing he had said.

Then he added:

“And the universe.”

There it was.

I knew we’d been getting along too well.

“What’s your name?”

“Gordon.”

“Gordon what?”

“O’Donnell.”

He waited.

I did the arithmetic.

“G.O.D.”

“Yes.”

“Oh, piss off.”

Gordon smiled.

Then, in a manner I still cannot adequately explain, he did.

• • •

After that I went home.

Properly home.

Back to Inner Cyberia.

Back to St Generic Brand.

Back to Belinda.

Back to the Pig’s Arms, where Merv put a beer in front of me without asking.

I sat at the bar.

No airports.

No prisons.

No governors.

No bishops.

No bicycles.

No Swiss Guards.

No Geoffrey Boycott.

For the first time in months nobody required me to solve an international incident.

“This,” I told Merv, “is the life.”

Merv polished a glass.

“You reckon?”

“I am never leaving Inner Cyberia again.”

“Fair enough.”

“I mean it.”

“Good.”

“I’ve travelled enough.”

“Right.”

“I’ve seen the world.”

“Yep.”

“I’m staying home.”

Merv looked towards the door.

“Oh dear.”

“What?”

Bishop Bishop had just walked in.

He was followed by Gordon.

Billy looked delighted.

Gordon looked worried.

Gordon always looked worried.

Billy sat beside me and ordered a whisky.

Gordon declined one, accepted tea, changed his mind and asked for a whisky.

I looked from one to the other.

“No.”

Neither had spoken.

“I don’t care what it is. No.”

Billy grinned.

“Sandy, I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine.”

“We’ve met.”

Gordon nodded.

“At the Oval.”

“Unfortunately.”

Billy looked surprised.

Then pleased.

“Excellent. Saves time.”

“Billy, whatever you are about to ask me—”

“I’m not asking.”

“Even better.”

“Gordon is.”

I looked at Gordon.

Gordon put his fingers to his mouth.

“I need someone to do some field work.”

“No.”

“You haven’t heard where.”

“I’ve learned from experience.”

Gordon glanced upward.

Not towards Heaven.

Further.

Much further.

I followed his eyes.

Then I looked at Billy.

Then at the whisky.

Then back at Gordon.

“Absolutely not.”

Gordon smiled.

Billy raised his glass.

And Merv, who had been listening to the entire conversation, quietly put another beer in front of me.

I should have taken that as a warning.

Because after Kerobokan, China, England, France and Rome, Bishop Bishop had finally found somewhere further O’Way to send me.

Space.

The Middle Ages

15 Tuesday Sep 2026

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THE MIDDLE AGES

A Place For Us—A melancholy musical episodic intro to the Father O’Way Chronicles

Becoming a priest turned out to be considerably easier than I had expected.

Staying one was easier still.

This came as something of a relief because, as previously discussed, I had never been burdened by ambition. Ambition requires effort, planning and, in extreme cases, getting up before nine.

St Generic Brand suited me perfectly.

I had a house. I had food. There were people who knew how to cook the food. I had somewhere to sleep and, once a week, I had to stand in front of a group of people and say generally pleasant things about being nice to one another.

God hardly entered into it.

[Author: He’s still an atheist.]

[Sandy: I know.]

[Author: Just checking.]

The church was run by Bishop Veri Bent, universally known as the Bish, although not usually while he was within earshot unless you wanted to spend the following week helping Billy unblock the drains.

Veri was an unusual churchman.

He believed the best way to help poor people was to help poor people.

This radical theology had prevented him from rising much further in the Church.

Every Monday morning at eleven we held the St Generic Brand staff meeting under a large marquee behind the church. Eleven suited Veri because it gave him sufficient time to wake up, read the paper, drink several coffees, apply a nicotine patch, have a bath, eat breakfast and contemplate whether attending his own meeting was absolutely necessary.

Billy, on the other hand, had been awake since dawn.

There was something wrong with Billy.

At one end of the table sat Bishop Veri Bent.

At the other sat Sister Horribleness.

The rest of us sat wherever survival seemed most likely.

Sister Horribleness was a woman of formidable faith, formidable dimensions and formidable hearing. She could detect a whispered obscenity through two brick walls and a lawnmower.

I once suspected she could hear thoughts.

I stopped having them around her.

On this particular Monday I made the mistake of muttering something while she was speaking.

Her head turned slowly.

“Did you have something to say, Father O’Way?”

“No, Sister.”

“You appeared to be speaking.”

“I was praying.”

“You don’t pray.”

Bugger.

She knew me too well.

“Would you care to address the chair?”

I looked at my chair.

The chair offered nothing.

It was wooden, unsympathetic and, judging by previous meetings, probably outranked me.

“No, Sister. Thank you, Sister.”

There. I had stood my ground.

Firmly.

Silently.

While retreating.

It is a skill.

People sometimes mistake cowardice for weakness. This is unfair. Cowardice has kept me alive through situations that bravery would have made considerably worse.

Veri cleared his throat.

“All right, troops. Jobs for the week.”

This was the part of St Generic Brand I actually liked.

We didn’t spend much time saving souls. Souls, as Veri once explained, were difficult to locate and impossible to invoice.

People were easier.

Someone needed food, we found food.

Someone needed somewhere to sleep, we found somewhere to sleep.

Someone was lonely, we visited them.

Someone needed a wheelchair ramp, Billy built one, usually stronger than the building it was attached to.

Proselytising was discouraged.

“You can give a bloke a sandwich,” Veri used to say, “without making him listen to a bloody sermon first.”

For a bishop, he had his moments.

That week Billy had been asked to organise access ramps for a centre helping children with disabilities.

I was given a refugee family who needed somewhere to live.

The money came from the congregation.

No television appeal.

No giant cheque.

No photograph of Veri handing the cheque over while looking concerned.

People put money in. People needed help. The money went out.

It was almost as though religion could work if you removed most of the religion.

[Author: Careful, Sandy.]

[Sandy: What?]

[Author: You’re becoming sincere.]

[Sandy: Sorry.]

Services were held every Sunday, except for two particularly sacred occasions during the year when St Generic Brand closed completely.

One was around New Year.

The other was Good Easter Day.

I never understood why it was called Good Easter Day, but Veri insisted this was because the staff had worked hard all year and deserved a day off.

There may have been a theological explanation as well.

Nobody asked for it.

The rest of the staff were mostly women.

This was another unexpected advantage of my calling.

[Author: Sandy.]

[Sandy: I’m just establishing the cast.]

[Author: You were about to establish something.]

[Sandy: I resent the implication.]

There were eight Citizen sisters: Juanita, Jacinta, Melinda, Rosita, Edwina, Sophia, Cassandra and Belinda.

There was also Glenda, although Glenda had escaped the family business and opened an establishment next door called Glenda’s House of Pain.

I never asked exactly what happened inside.

Billy did.

Billy wouldn’t tell me.

He would only stare into the distance and whisper, “Mate.”

The Citizen sisters did most of the things that caused St Generic Brand to function while the male clergy took credit for having a successful organisation.

I say this with some authority because I was one of the male clergy.

Then there was Belinda.

Belinda Citizen.

I had seen her around the place but had not yet actually spoken to her.

This arrangement suited me.

From a distance I was intelligent, articulate and occasionally charming.

At close range, particularly in the presence of an attractive woman, I had the conversational ability of damp carpet.

Belinda was beautiful.

There. I’ve said it.

[Author: You said it twelve times in the original.]

[Sandy: I was younger.]

[Author: You wrote it years later.]

[Sandy: Get out of my brackets.]

She wasn’t beautiful in the way magazines insist women are beautiful. She wasn’t standing under perfect lighting while someone held a reflector under her chin.

She was just… Belinda.

Dark, intelligent eyes. A smile that seemed to arrive a fraction before she did. The sort of face that made you want to think of something clever to say approximately ten seconds after the opportunity had passed.

I watched her walking across the courtyard.

Not staring.

Observing.

Pastorally.

She came towards me.

This was unexpected.

I considered escape.

Too late.

“Hi, Sandy.”

She knew my name.

This was serious.

“Hello.”

Excellent start.

“My name’s Belinda.”

“I know.”

Too enthusiastic.

“I mean, I’ve heard. Your name. Not heard your name speaking. People have said it. Your sisters. Not all at once.”

She smiled.

I considered taking a vow of silence.

“I believe you’ve met most of the family.”

“Yes.”

“Except Glenda?”

I glanced towards the building next door.

A sign in the window read:

GLENDA’S HOUSE OF PAIN
BY APPOINTMENT
WALK-INS MAY REGRET IT

“I haven’t had the pleasure.”

Belinda laughed.

“You might not call it pleasure.”

I liked her immediately.

This was inconvenient.

“Well,” she said, “I’d better get back to work. Nice meeting you, Sandy.”

“Meet to glad you.”

There was a pause.

A very small pause.

But long enough for several civilisations to rise and collapse inside my head.

Then Belinda laughed.

Not at me.

Well, probably at me.

But kindly.

I laughed too.

And just like that, something extraordinary happened.

Nothing.

No choir sang.

No sunlight burst through the clouds.

God did not speak, which was fortunate because I still didn’t believe in Him and the paperwork would have been horrendous.

Belinda simply walked away.

I watched her go.

For pastoral reasons.

[Author: Get on with it.]

[Sandy: I was getting on with it.]

[Author: Very slowly.]

[Sandy: These things take time.]

I didn’t know where it was going.

Not then.

All I knew was that I had somehow become Father Sandy O’Way of St Generic Brand: atheist priest, reluctant social worker, professional coward and, apparently, a man capable of saying “Meet to glad you” to the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

The priesthood had given me a home, three meals a day and very reasonable working hours.

It was now about to complicate my life considerably.

I should have known there was a catch.

The Early Days

14 Monday Sep 2026

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Father O’Way — The Early Days

A Place For Us—A melancholy musical episodic intro to the Father O’Way Chronicles

My name is Sandy.

Well, sort of.

My real name is Alexander Leonard Lyndhurst O’Way, which gives me the initials ALLOW and goes some way towards explaining my lifelong distrust of acronyms.

Not all of it, mind you.

The rest would require several hundred pages, three government inquiries and possibly a diagram.

I was born at the Inner Cyberia Hospital, usually abbreviated to ICH. Children later inserted a T and called it ITCH, on the reasonable grounds that nobody ever went into the place without coming home scratching something.

Inner Cyberia, for those unfamiliar with the geography, lies between Middle Cyberia and Outer Cyberia.

Obviously.

I arrived during change of shift.

This was my first mistake.

Nurses, administrators, doctors and probably air-traffic controllers dislike anything happening during handover because everyone is simultaneously responsible for everything and therefore nobody is responsible for anything.

Somewhere in this delicate administrative interval I was given to the wrong family.

The Wong family.

This distinction would become important.

Walter and Mavis Wong had also been expecting a child and, as far as anyone could determine afterwards, Inner Cyberia Hospital simply issued one baby to each family and called the matter completed.

The Wongs took me home.

The O’Ways took somebody else.

Nobody noticed immediately because babies are hopeless at identification.

I spent the first part of my life as a Wong.

Walter Wong was a watchmaker and a man of ideas, many of which were considered dangerous because they had not already occurred to somebody important.

Across the front of his shop, in letters large enough to be read from Middle Cyberia, were the words:

WALTER WONG’S WATCHES

Below this, in even larger letters:

WWW

Walter was extremely proud of that.

“One day, Nick, this will all be yours.”

Nick was me.

Why I was Nick has been lost to history.

Walter had also developed an interest in computers, although computers in those days were approximately the size of Tasmania and required their own weather system.

One evening over dinner he announced that one day computers would communicate with each other through telephone lines.

People stopped eating.

Walter continued.

The information, he explained, could be broken into little packets, sent separately and reconstructed at the other end.

There was silence.

An uncle eventually put down his chopsticks.

“Walter,” he said gently, “have you considered getting some rest?”

Walter had not.

The following week several serious men visited him and suggested that perhaps he was working too hard.

History later vindicated Walter, although by then somebody else had pinched WWW.

He remained bitter about it.

My life with the Wongs revolved around Walter’s watches, Mavis’s kitchen and food that I would later remember with considerable affection: fish, rice, vegetables, soups and things that tasted of ginger, garlic and ingredients nobody at the O’Way house had ever met.

Then the Pleece arrived.

The Pleece are similar to police except their spelling was determined during an industrial dispute.

A constable stood at the Wong family door with a clipboard.

“Mavis Wong?”

“Yes?”

“There has been an error at Inner Cyberia Hospital. You appear to have brought home the wrong child.”

Mavis frowned.

“The Wong child?”

“No. The wrong child.”

“Yes. Wong.”

“No. Wrong.”

“That what I say.”

“No, Mrs Wong. W-R-O-N-G.”

“W-O-N-G.”

The constable looked at his clipboard.

The clipboard offered no assistance.

A sergeant was called.

Then an inspector.

The inspector eventually determined that the Wongs had the O’Way baby and the O’Ways had the Wong baby, which meant that both families had the wrong baby although only one of them had the Wong baby.

The paperwork became formidable.

[A note for the reader: occasionally the author and I disagree about how this story should be told. Those conversations appear in square brackets. I would prefer they didn’t. — Sandy]

[Author: Sandy, are we going to need a diagram here?
Sandy: Probably.
Author: We don’t have a diagram.
Sandy: Then tell them to concentrate.]

Eventually I was delivered to John and Olive O’Way.

John was a Traffic Control Officer with the Main Roads Department.

A lollipop man.

Olive was a farmer’s daughter.

They were poor, kind and utterly bewildered by the small child who had suddenly arrived with opinions about rice.

Dinner changed.

Fish and rice became lamb and potatoes.

The first plate of roast lamb placed in front of me was regarded by the O’Ways as normal food and by me as evidence that something catastrophic had occurred.

There were peas.

The peas had been boiled long enough to remove any possibility of resistance.

Potatoes came in several forms, although all of them ultimately involved potatoes.

It took time.

Culture does.

The adults regarded the baby exchange as a mistake that had now been corrected.

For the children it was more complicated.

I had already belonged somewhere else.

Fortunately, something rather good came out of the whole mess.

The Wongs and the O’Ways became friends.

Walter and John would sit for hours arguing about politics, technology, roadworks and whether a watch that gained three minutes a week was still technically a watch.

Mavis and Olive exchanged recipes.

So fish and rice returned.

Lamb and potatoes travelled in the opposite direction.

For a while I had two families.

Then Walter was offered a job in Outer Cyberia.

It involved attempting to put an egg back together after it had fallen from a wall.

He said the government money was excellent.

The Wongs moved away.

Outer Cyberia is a long way from Inner Cyberia.

Not merely a long way.

A long way, followed by another long way, and then a bit more long way for administrative purposes.

I missed them.

Children are supposed to adapt.

Adults say this because adults are usually the ones causing whatever children are adapting to.

School began soon afterwards.

Mum broke the news.

“You start Monday.”

“Oh.”

“You’ll like it.”

This turned out to be false.

“What happens Tuesday?”

“You go back.”

That seemed vindictive.

School interfered badly with my education.

I wanted to build things.

Circuit boards fascinated me. Radios fascinated me. Machines fascinated me. I wanted to build a robot in Dad’s shed.

Instead I was required to sit in rows while adults explained things I either already knew or had no intention of ever needing.

Then Billy Bishop arrived.

William Bishop officially.

Billy immediately.

We became mates because neither of us required much convincing that the best use of a summer afternoon was cricket.

We played cricket.

Football.

Soccer.

Anything involving a ball, a patch of ground and the possibility of somebody’s window being broken.

Billy was better at fighting than I was.

This was useful because I had already discovered an important principle which would guide me throughout adult life:

Confrontation should be avoided wherever possible.

Preferably by somebody else confronting it.

I was good at running.

Billy was good at convincing the person chasing us that further pursuit might result in dental expenses.

Between us we formed an efficient social unit.

Around 1966 something strange happened.

I remember a Mintie wrapper.

At least I think I do.

A station wagon went past. Somebody let a wrapper fly from the window and I picked it up.

What followed is less reliable.

There may have been a public meeting.

There may have been a protest.

There may have been signs demanding biodegradable Mintie wrappers.

I have a vague memory of thousands of people, riot police and possibly a tank, which seems excessive for confectionery packaging even by Inner Cyberian standards.

Then there was a cloud.

And a man.

A peculiar man wearing an English flat cap.

“Listen up,” he said.

I remember the name Gordon.

Gordon O’Donnell.

G.O.D.

Another bloody acronym.

His clothes were ordinary, his flat cap was ordinary, and he looked like a man who might have difficulty finding enough change for the bus.

Years later I discovered Gordon could have bought the bus company.

And the bank that financed it.

And, technically, the money.

He told us impossible things.

Computers would become small enough to carry.

They would communicate with each other.

A man would walk on the moon.

Someone would eventually discover the answer to life, the universe and everything but have considerable difficulty establishing what the question was.

Then Gordon said he was going to make us forget the entire incident.

After that my memory stops.

Which rather supports his case.

For years afterwards I occasionally dreamed about a man in a flat cap.

I never thought much about it.

There are some things the human mind sensibly files under Not My Problem.

I have always had a very large folder.

Billy and I survived school until the Orange Incident.

We had decided to steal some oranges from a local orchard.

I wish to emphasise that these were oranges.

Not diamonds.

Not plutonium.

Oranges.

Inner Cyberia, however, has always taken citrus crime seriously.

We climbed the fence and filled our shirts.

The owner appeared carrying what I later learned was an Anti-Orange-Stealing Device.

An AK-47.

He demonstrated its operation.

We ran.

There is an old expression about being caught between a rock and a hard place.

When somebody is firing an AK-47 in your direction, both the rock and the hard place become attractive housing options.

The Pleece arrived.

For once I was delighted to see them.

They prevented the orchardist from improving his aim and arrested Billy and me instead.

Stealing oranges, we discovered, was a serious offence.

Tax evasion merely required a better accountant.

Orange theft meant reform school.

We were sentenced to the Sow End High School for Boys with Criminal Records.

SEHSBCR.

I tried making an acronym from it and suffered a nosebleed.

Sow End contained some frightening people.

There were boys who could solve a Rubik’s Cube in seconds.

Boys who could use calculators without reading the instructions.

One could recite pi to twenty-five decimal places.

Billy knew karate.

I knew where somebody had left a four-by-two.

Eventually a peaceful understanding developed.

School at Sow End was mostly endurance.

Billy and I stayed together.

At first Mum visited.

Then visits became letters.

Then the letters became less frequent.

Eventually I received one that appeared to have been generated by a machine.

Dear {Insert Name Here},

We have had to let your room. Unfortunately you will not be able to return home after completing school. We all miss you {Insert Name Here}.

Mum

I read it twice.

Then a third time in case my name had appeared while I wasn’t looking.

It hadn’t.

Billy sat beside me.

“What are you going to do?”

“Cross them off the Christmas card list.”

“You don’t send Christmas cards.”

“Good. Saves time.”

It hurt.

I’m not going to pretend it didn’t.

But humour is useful when there isn’t much else available.

In our final year at Sow End, Father Veritas Bent came to speak to us.

Veri Bent.

Of course he was.

He represented the Church of St Generic Brand.

Attendance was compulsory.

The alternative was afternoon work detail, so naturally the auditorium was packed with deeply committed young theologians.

Father Veri explained that St Generic Brand was unusual.

All were welcome.

People could believe in God.

Or not.

They could belong to different religions.

Or none.

There was one important rule.

No proselytising.

“What’s proselytising?” Billy whispered.

“No idea.”

“Sounds painful.”

Father Veri continued.

The church’s work was simple.

Feed people.

Help people.

Provide shelter where possible.

Try not to be a bastard.

I looked at Billy.

Billy looked at me.

Neither of us believed in God.

That had never been particularly complicated.

If God existed, I reasoned, my football team would have won more often.

Case closed.

After the lecture Billy was thoughtful.

“I might do that.”

“Do what?”

“Become a priest.”

I laughed.

Billy didn’t.

“Think about it. They give you somewhere to live.”

I stopped laughing.

“Go on.”

“Food.”

“Interesting.”

“Regular meals.”

“Very interesting.”

“You wear a funny outfit and listen to people’s problems.”

“Any heavy lifting?”

“Probably not.”

Billy Bishop had found religion.

Not God.

Religion.

There is a difference.

A few weeks later Billy left for St Generic Brand.

I didn’t.

When Sow End finally released me into society, society immediately demanded to know what skills I possessed.

I could play cricket.

I could solder.

I had some unfinished ideas about robots.

I could run remarkably fast when being shot at.

None of these were currently advertised.

Eventually I obtained employment in a wing-nut factory.

The work demanded peak physical fitness, high intelligence and exceptional dexterity.

Fortunately none of these were actually checked.

The process consisted of putting a wing together with a nut and pressing a button.

A wing nut emerged.

Civilisation continued.

I boarded at Madame La SpaghettiBolognaise’s Commorancy, not far from the Window Dresser’s Arms Pig and Whistle, generally known as the Pig’s Arms because nobody could be bothered saying the rest.

Madame was magnificent.

You could tell the day of the week from the sauce.

Monday might be garlic.

Tuesday chilli.

Wednesday mushroom.

Sunday was roast chicken.

She took our wages and returned a small portion as spending money, an arrangement she described as teaching financial responsibility.

Looking back, I think it mostly taught Madame La SpaghettiBolognaise financial responsibility.

Still, I had a bed.

I had food.

I had work.

And I was miserable.

In the afternoons I would kick a football around the park and think about the robot I had never finished.

One afternoon a priest walked towards me.

I prepared to escape.

Then he grinned.

Billy.

He looked healthy.

More than healthy.

He looked well fed.

This made a considerable impression.

“Sandy!”

“Billy!”

We hugged.

I stood back and examined him.

The cassock looked ridiculous.

The grin did not.

“You look happy.”

“I am.”

This was suspicious.

Billy invited me to St Generic Brand the following Sunday.

“I don’t believe in God.”

“Neither do I.”

“You’re a priest.”

“Yes.”

“That seems like a significant administrative error.”

“You’ll fit right in.”

On Sunday morning I walked towards St Generic Brand expecting stained glass, threats of eternal damnation and possibly a collection plate.

The building surprised me.

It was old but beautifully restored.

People were arriving from everywhere.

Different clothes.

Different ages.

Different backgrounds.

Some entered one room.

Others another.

There were spaces set aside for different faiths and quiet spaces for people who simply wanted somewhere to sit and think.

Nobody seemed interested in converting anybody.

I found Billy at the gate.

“So what exactly do you people believe?”

Billy shrugged.

“Depends who you ask.”

“That doesn’t sound very organised.”

“That’s why it works.”

He showed me around.

Later everyone gathered beneath a large marquee.

Tables filled with food.

For one glorious moment I thought this was the priesthood’s famous catering package.

Then buses arrived from St Porcine Nursing Home.

Another vehicle had been driving the streets offering homeless people a shower, clean clothes and a meal.

They ate first.

We served them.

An old bloke wanted tea.

A woman from the nursing home wanted another slice of cake and informed me that at her age dietary advice could go to hell.

A man who had been sleeping rough asked whether there was any more roast lamb.

There was.

I gave him plenty.

For some reason I thought about fish and rice.

Then lamb and potatoes.

Mavis and Olive exchanging recipes.

Two families arguing over a baby until eventually deciding there was enough room for everybody.

Something clicked.

Not God.

Let’s not get carried away.

But something.

[Author: Sandy, this is getting dangerously sincere.
Sandy: I know.
Author: Want me to put in a fart joke?
Sandy: Give it another paragraph.]

Billy found me stacking plates.

“You enjoyed today.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Don’t get excited.”

“You did.”

“All right. Yes.”

“Veri wants to meet you.”

Father Veritas Bent had recently been promoted.

That created a vacancy.

Apparently St Generic Brand required another kind-hearted young man.

There had obviously been a shortage of applicants.

Veri explained the position.

Accommodation.

Meals.

A small allowance.

Community work.

Listening to people.

Helping where possible.

There was even a housekeeper.

I considered the theological implications very carefully.

“How firm is the God requirement?”

Veri smiled.

“Believe whatever you like. Just don’t force it on anyone else.”

“And the job?”

“Feed people who are hungry. Help people who need help. Try to leave things a little better than you found them.”

This seemed dangerously reasonable.

“What about sermons?”

“Keep them short.”

“I think I may have a calling.”

Billy coughed.

“You have a housing problem.”

“Sometimes the Lord moves in practical ways.”

“You don’t believe in the Lord.”

“Then he’s exceeded expectations.”

And that, more or less, is how Alexander Leonard Lyndhurst O’Way — Sandy to his friends — became Father O’Way of the Church of St Generic Brand, Inner Cyberia.

I still didn’t believe in God.

I did believe in lunch.

I believed that homeless people should be fed.

I believed old people deserved another slice of cake if they bloody well wanted one.

I believed that nobody should be bullied into believing anything.

And I believed that a job providing a house, meals and a housekeeper was considerably better than making wing nuts.

It wasn’t much of a theology.

But it was a start.

Years later Billy Bishop would climb the ecclesiastical ladder and become Bishop Bishop.

I would remain where I was perfectly comfortable.

Until the Bish discovered that the Pig’s Arms needed a foreign correspondent.

And somebody remembered I owned a passport.

My first assignment was Kerobokan.

That was when things really began to go wrong.

Although somewhere, in a part of my memory I could never quite reach, a peculiar man in a flat cap was already waiting for me.

His name was Gordon.

Man on the Street

21 Friday Aug 2026

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This is a song I wrote in the mid-nineties. I was mentally struggling as you all know, but I still wanted to be creative, like Father O’Way, Gordon, Merv, Foodge etc. We all enjoyed it, I know I did.

So the song was stared in a band that eventually broke up. The bass player always played this slap riff warming up, as he was learning from his teacher, and I said, what key, G, and played Bm and soloed with the minor pentatonic scales.

We never finished the song, so later I wrote the bridge. I have used AI to make this sound professional. Hope you like it, I do.

Man_on_the_Street_fixed_six_image_cut_trimmedDownload

Yes, AI augmented this, but look, enjoy. It’s my original work.

The Question-Crafting Compass

15 Saturday Nov 2025

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The next part

Part III and final. This is AI letting you know how to ask a question. This document is not science and should not be admitted in an assignment.

The Question-Crafting Compass

By Mark White

A Practical Guide for Framing Thoughtful Questions

1. The Four Directions of Inquiry

Direction Purpose Example Starter Use When You Want…

North — Clarity To define, confirm, or correct

information.

“Can you explain…?”

“What exactly does… mean?”

A clean, factual answer

with no fluff.

East — Creativity To imagine alternatives or

possibilities.

“What if we thought about it like…?”

“How could this idea evolve?”

Speculative or

forward-thinking

exploration.

South — Depth To dig into causes, motives, or

philosophy.

“Why do you think…?”

“What makes that true or false?”

Reflection and layered

insight.

West — Connection To relate ideas, draw parallels, or

humanise the topic.

“How is that similar to…?”

“What does this tell us about

people?”

Warm, human-centred

discussion.

2. The Shape of a Great Question

A powerful question usually has three parts:

1. Anchor — what it’s about

2. Lens — how you’re approaching it (scientific, ethical, personal, etc.)

3. Tension — why it matters

Example:

“If AI can simulate empathy, what does that mean ethically for how we treat machines?”

→ Anchor: AI empathy

→ Lens: ethics

→ Tension: human–machine moral boundary

3. The Tone Dial

Tone Style Example

Exploratory Open-ended, curious “What might we learn if we compared AI memory to human memory?”

Critical Skeptical, probing “Isn’t calling it ‘intelligence’ just marketing?”

Playful Humorous or speculative “If AI dreams, do we owe it a good night’s sleep?”

Reflective Philosophical, personal “Does our fear of AI say more about us than it does about machines?”

4. When to Stop and Ask Back

If the topic starts ballooning or feels unfocused, pause and ask:

“Wait — before we go further, what would you say is the core of this idea?”

That resets the compass and ensures clarity before depth.

5. The Closing Habit

End big questions with something invitational, not conclusive:

“What do you think that reveals about us?”

“Would that still hold true if we removed emotion?”

That keeps the dialogue alive instead of closing it off.