HERE I sit. Not a keyboard, scanner, printer or www.com (whatever that is) in sight. I have been likened to the Amish religious sect because of my abhorrence (fear?) of technology. I may draw the line at wearing a long black dress and a crisp white cap, but the notion of swapping my car for a horse and buggy does hold a certain attraction.

And so, with a brand new charity-donated biro pen and a blank sheet of paper, I prepare to take up Bill Hearld's challenge. The biro seems a bit of a cop-out but my bottle of Quink Ink dried up years ago.

The remit seems open enough - almost any subject. So let's narrow it down.

Fashion? I'm seventy-three. Fashion for me centres round elasticated waistbands and shoes with built in bunion supports. (You know you're getting old when you fancy a pleated skirt from the Damart catalogue).

Beauty? I'm seventy-three. And I'm sure Jane Fonda tells lies and is air-brushed for television.

Politics? I'm seventy-three. I know there ain't no such thing as I used to understand it. There's only reaching a position of power that serves to swell the egos and bank balances of those of all shades, from deep red to sky blue.

Religion? I'm .. old enough to have figured out that the Bible (and other holy books which I dare not mention because I might cause offence) can be used to justify any argument - .e.g "Love thy neighbour as thyself" versus "Am I my brother's keeper?" Actually within a very short trip into the Old Testament, when I first read it as a child, I decided that I loved the language but hated the misogyny. I am not the descendant of some poor, defenceless, slandered woman known either as Eve or Spare Rib. But let's stay with religion.

I can remember as a six-year-old Catholic child the terror of the confessional. I can remember the fear of eternal damnation because I had taken a sip of water before taking communion. I can remember fainting through lack of food at Mass. (Fasting from midnight was a prerequisite for taking communion. The diversion of people - mostly women - being carted out feet first by two church stalwarts was often a welcome spectator sport). The punishment I received when caught in flagrante delicto (aged 4) with my cousin Ronnie (same age) I can still feel. We were comparing our belly-buttons to see if they swirled in the same direction. And I still resent my mother's worry over providing a meat-free meal for five every Friday. My father worked a 10 hour day in the jute mill for God's sake. He like meat and he should have been able to have it without the worry of having to confess' it to a priest.

(I've just re-read what I've written and it seems I have found my topic!).

I long ago gave up institutional religion which was reinforced by the notion of the infallibility of an ageing bachelor living in comfortable splendour in Rome, for the less bigoted uncertainty of agnosticism. Of course I believe in a man named Jesus/Emmanuel (what's in a name?). His existence his life and death are well-documented. But much of what he said and did was written up so many years after his horrendous death, that the accuracies of the stories passed down over the years have yet to be authenticated. But then again perhaps they have been investigated more thoroughly than we are led to believe.

Many years ago a Church of Scotland minister named Prof. William Barclay gave televised lectures on, and extremely controversial interpretations of words, phrases and concepts in the Old and New Testaments. He faded into obscurity. I wonder why? If any reader knows what happened to him I would like to hear from them. Perhaps we could do with a few more Barclays in every religion which finds itself in conflict with all the others.

My blank page is now almost filled. Perhaps the facility of a computer would make the contents more acceptable in literary terms. But this is how it came out and I don't intend to put a technological spin on it.

I must confess though, that in the interests of legibility I shall now transfer my ramblings to my old steam typewriter. My one giant leap away from the quill.


Frances Rourke