So now, aged 66.5, it is quite a thing to realise I have truly forgotten what the (religiously speaking) point of it all might be. For me this is a happy moment, akin to my post retirement pleasure in not knowing what day it is and the freedom from those ticking clock imposed schedules that this lack of knowledge implies. Now I really think about it I may only still have Christmas left as a celebration of which I do know the religious meaning. The fact that I am struggling to recall even the names of the other events in the Christian calendar is rather ‘telling’ is it not.

I went to primary school in England during the 1960s and at that time you attended primary from ages 5 to 11 years old. In the final year you took an exam called the Eleven Plus (or 11+) and that determined what ‘grade’ of secondary school you went on to attend. My primary school was St. Francis, a Catholic school, but still a ‘state’ school, at least as far as the secular part of the curriculum went. Without more research I can’t be certain exactly what the arrangement with the education authorities might have been. From talking to others it seems that I received an ‘extra dose’ of religious indoctrination compared to those that went to the normal state primary schools, where the religious content was that of the official Protestant state religion, C of E (Church Of England).

We lucky kids had an extra little text book called the catechism which was entirely a ‘summary or exposition of doctrine’ (Wikipedia) and were tested regularly on how well we had learned ‘our lessons’ from it’s pages. Some Christians would rankle at the term indoctrination and relate that to, say, the Chinese communists with their little red book, but the uncomfortable reality is that there’s no difference at all. Filling impressionable young minds with ‘your’ beliefs (and that’s all they are) is no different whatever those beliefs might be. So it’s with a little amazement that I realise how much of that early indoctrination has finally slipped away. It was literally knocked into our skulls at St. Francis where the much feared Mrs. Coakley would rap you hard over the head with her crooked knuckle for pretty much any reason, but especially hard if you’d forgotten or answered incorrectly about something from ‘the holy book’. In latter primary years Mr. O’Donnell would delight in taking a good run up before whacking the love of Jesus into you with a size 11 plimsoll.

Those latter two years were spent at an annex on the grounds of the local Catholic convent school. On the other side of the wall, I later learnt (from my sister amongst others), the daily regime of harsh treatment for transgression being dealt out by those ‘lovely’ nuns actually put Mrs. Coakley and Mr. O’Donnell’s peccadilloes in the shade, with their added layers of mental cruelty and humiliation. It’s little wonder that many of us do not look back on those days and institutions with fondness and indeed do look back in anger. I don’t know what either of those institutions are like now, but one assumes they surely must have moved somewhat forward with the times, at least in the tolerated levels of casual violence dished out by the adults to the children.

Now, it transpires that within the couple of days during which I have been creating this post the pope has died. No doubt the faithful will be a-weeping and a-wailing, whilst the cardinals jockey for position. For myself I feel precisely nothing, after all roughly 150,000 people die every day and most days they are people I have never heard of. If I felt honest ‘grief’ for even a tiny few of them I would be inconsolably sad and depressed for my whole life.
I am aware of very few things this last pope ever said; only one comes to mind and that is his declaration that I and my partner are selfish people because we chose not to have children and had pet animals to love and cherish instead. Excellent on the ‘love thy neighbour’ and inclusion of diversity front mate! I guess he won’t mind going to a ‘heaven’ (presumably) where there are no animals, according to doctrine. Yet another reason I’d rather not go to their idea of eternal paradise; I won’t meet up with my beloved Claudia, Paddy, Mary, Murphy, Purrdita, Tinkerbell and Cleopatra!? Doesn’t sound very heavenly to me.

So there we have it, a bit of an Easter waffle during which a pontiff expired. Time now for a toasty fruit bun, some chocolate and then to tell my two furry children they are the most beautiful cats in the world!