Rear-view mirror
HAVING lived in North America for 38 years, I’m not entirely sure of the current state of British dentistry, but, when I was a teenager in London, the common response to far too many tooth issues was extraction. This was the case with one of mine, which meant that when, three years ago, one of its next-door neighbours became infected, even a cosmetically committed Canadian practitioner had to pull the thing out.
That left quite a gap and what is known as a “flip denture” was made. I hated wearing it because it irritated my gum — and also made me feel horribly aged. So I finally opted for a dental implant. Thank God for this remarkable procedure and for the joys of nitrous oxide.
Implants have been around for only 30 or 40 years. Looking back at photos from the 1970s of super-fit footballers in their early twenties, what I notice so often is that their front teeth have been knocked out. In those pre-implant days, they wore dentures, which they would remove before a game. They look ancient — not helped, if they had lost their hair, by growing what remained instead of cropping it. I’m 67, don’t feel old, work out, and go for long walks, but have twice in the past three weeks had obliging young people offer me a seat on public transport. Surely they were referring to the obviously elderly person behind me? Nope, not a chance.
Swipe left
PART of the ageing process for me is that religious issues that once concerned or even obsessed me have now become largely unimportant. I hope that this is a comforting confidence based on experience rather than a smug complacency built on indifference.
I consider this whenever I read yet another report about how younger, especially conservative, people are moving to Roman Catholicism. Their reasons are multifaceted, but those I know often have expectations of theological certainty and liturgical beauty. It is an understandable reaction in these painfully ambiguous times. While they will probably find what they want in certain churches, they may be in for disappointment. I spent decades in the Roman Catholic Church, wrote two books about it, and can assure you that it’s as divided as any other. Also, with all due respect, I have sometimes found it banal in its music and half-hearted in its worship.
It used to be that, while local Catholics might be unconcerned with Vatican teaching or erratic in their observance, the traditional and faithful could always rely on Rome for the solid example that they craved. But, in spite of claims to the contrary, the Roman Catholic Church does indeed change with the times, and not to everybody’s liking. Radically right-wing Catholics hated Pope Francis — it’s not too strong an observation — and their view of Pope Leo is sliding in that direction. I wish the converts well, but I do wonder: greener grass and all that.
Small world
MY WIFE and I went to New York for the Broadway opening of Giant, the play about Roald Dahl in which I’m portrayed for a few minutes (long story). The following day, we were lining up for the Frick Collection, on the Upper East Side, when a surprised voice said, “Michael?” It was Peter Anthony, vicar of the wonderful All Saints’, Margaret Street. Once inside the museum I heard again, “Michael?” and it was Max Kramer, Chaplain of Keble College, Oxford. They weren’t there together, and it was all a coincidence. I realise that these things happen, but the chances of bumping into two friends so far from home must be incredibly small.
The Frick itself is an extraordinary gallery, made even more famous in the past few years by the juxtaposition of the Holbein portraits of Thomas More and Thomas Cromwell. For a long time, More was assumed to be the hero of the relationship and Cromwell the villain, but the magnificent work of Hilary Mantel and Diarmaid MacCulloch has dented some of that — some, but not all.
Standing next to me as I stared at the paintings was a nun in full habit. She sighed and then whispered: “Cromwell’s eyes follow you around the room. There’s evil there, pure evil.” I replied that I regarded him, and his eyes, as being rather compelling. She moved off to El Greco’s St Jerome quickly and without a word.
Cautionary tale
I RECEIVED a long, detailed letter from a “book club” asking me to be a guest in a Zoom meeting to discuss my new book. I’ve had hoax marketing people contact me numerous times, but nothing like this, and — as I’ve been invited to genuine book clubs in the past — I was initially taken in. It was only when they asked for a fee that I realised that it was a scam. I’m now told that these things are actually very common, and the perpetrators obviously have enough success to keep trying.
A friend of mine had a first novel published recently, and received an email offering to promote her book and listing examples of previous successful marketing campaigns. She, of course, dismissed it and sent back a very nasty note. Two weeks later, at a publishing party, she was introduced to someone described by a colleague as “the city’s most energetic and successful freelance book publicist”.
“Hello,” said the publicist. “Do you remember me? I wrote to you and you emailed me back. Not sure why you had to be so bloody rude!”
Speaking volumes
LATER this year, Netflix is releasing a film based on a C.S. Lewis’s The Magician’s Nephew — the first in the Narnia series, if not the first written. The director and cast are impressive, but it is always worrying when a beloved book is adapted for the screen, and I have concerns.
Lewis has been a hero and inspiration to me ever since I first encountered him 60 years ago, when our teacher read us The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. I was captivated, ran home, and asked my mother if there was a copy in the house. There wasn’t; so she immediately stopped what she was doing, walked to the bus stop, and got the bus to the closest bookshop. Two hours later, she was home with the book. That’s what parents do, of course, but I wonder whether I ever properly thanked her.
Forty years later, my father died, having had his second stroke. He had fallen down the stairs, but my mum’s dementia was sufficiently advanced that she couldn’t fully understand what had happened and certainly couldn’t use a phone or communicate. Frightened and confused, she wandered out on to the street. A kindly neighbour saw her distress and called an ambulance.
Mum died two years later. She and dad were both far too young and had worked so hard all of their lives. In an attempt to help deal with the pain of loss, I reread A Grief Observed, Lewis’s remarkable and timeless account of the death of his wife and the way in which he responded to the trauma. How the circles form, oh how they form.
The Revd Michael Coren is a journalist and a priest in the Anglican Church of Canada.