8th June Verily, verily, I say unto thee… thou shalt stretch forth thy hands, and another shall gird thee, and carry thee whither thou wouldest not.’ John 21.18

Cancer, obviously(!), is awful. Your life is turned upside down. Your family and friends put through indescribable worry and pain. You find yourself pre-occupied by minutiae: Which tablet and when? When did I last drink water? When did I last open my bowels? These are now the big questions. 

What amazes, delights and thrills me, is that people get it. Whether from experience or simple human empathy, they know it is sh1t, and so offer and display unbelievable acts of kindness. 

That is unless you are the great British Workman, or more accurately, white-van-man. 

Because of COVID and my condition, this year’s holiday has been cancelled. As a family we discussed what to do with the holiday money. Buy a new posh BBQ? Alas, I have to have everything cooked to 50 shades of black for fear of bacteria. This is anathema to Alex who understands that the only ‘well-cooked’ steak is one that can be revived by a half decent vet. So no BBQ. 

The discussion continued. Eventually it was agreed that what my parishioners really needed was the opportunity of catching a glimpse of the vicar impersonating Balaenoptera musculus, the Blue Whale, so a large paddling pool was ordered. (Nothing shows the glory of God like a parson in Speedos!) 

A few days later, as is often the case, the telephone rang, and the voice said, “I’m at the Vicarage, and no one’s here”. 

Sarah said, “No you’re not, as we are in the vicarage, and we can’t see you. What does the building say?” 

“Parish Hall and Church”. 

“We don’t live in the Parish Hall or Church, but the house next to them. Don’t worry I’ll come to you.”

Exit Sarah, stage right. 

Ten minutes later Keble was barking at four students from the High School next door lugging a cardboard box the size of a casket--Were these my pall-bearers?--a thought given further credence by Sarah’s expression, which appeared on the verge of tears. 

From the French windows, I thanked the students whole-heartedly by waving my base-ball cap enthusiastically, flashing the chrome-dome and shouting words of gratitude like some demented squire to the beaters on a shoot. They nodded and smiled politely.   

“That was very kind of those young people”, I said, “I am surprised the delivery driver didn’t bring it”.

“He refused” Sarah said incredulously. 

Apparently, it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a white van to go down our drive. 

She continued, “He then said his pallet trolley would be out of charge so he refused to use that as well.”

Sarah then produced the trump card. This is the card which opens all doors, gets you through A&E like super-charged Laxitose, and secures that corner table at The Ivy: “my husband has cancer”. 

This phrase which shatters the gates of Hades and breaks the stoniest of hearts, was met with a simple, “What’s that got to do with me, that’s not my problem”. 

With the proverbial wind well and truly vacuumed from Sarah’s sails she proffered, “Well my husband won’t be able to help, he had chemo yesterday.” 

“We’ve all got problems”, came forth England’s only living heart donor’s parry and riposte. 

As Sarah began to point out the implications of cancerous karma, four students who had overheard the exchange, offered to help carry the box. Here was true kindness stretching forth hands to someone in need, and from a group so often maligned. 

White van man left, spring in step, his dignity and strength intact, no one need ‘gird’ or ‘carry him wither’; he the man!