Tomorrow I'm making a trip to the Civic Centre to sign the book of condolence in memory of Nelson Mandela. To be honest, it feels a bit strange - leaving a message that few will read to commemorate a man I never met, from a country I've never set foot in. And yet, I feel overwhelmingly compelled to.
My parents lived in South Africa in the early '80s at the height of apartheid, at a time when Mandela was regarded as a terrorist and had been in prison for nearly two decades - even the mention of his name was a criminal offence. The stories of that time in South Africa, its culture and its people filled my childhood and gave me a great love for the country.
However, I don't think that it is merely a fondness for South Africa that has made me feel so saddened by the passing of Tata Madiba. Nor is it his standing as the leading global politician of the last decades. It's more than that: the work of Nelson Mandela, for me, represented a glimpse of something greater.
The story of his fight against the apartheid regime and his incredible grace and forgiveness following his release from prison have been well reported in recent days, but something that hasn't had so much attention is his focus on restorative justice.
In 1995, President Mandela established the Truth and Reconciliation Commission to bring perpetrators and victims of abuse during the apartheid struggle face-to-face, establish the full truth of the story and establish reconciliation. In appearing before the Commission chaired by Archbishop Tutu, perpetrators were granted amnesty in return for full disclosure of their crimes. (See, for example: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ujOL8FS2wv4.)
There have been many criticisms of the TRC from people who would rather have seen retributive justice done, however watching any footage from the Commission quickly shows how powerful and moving an act this was. Both truth and reconciliation were seen as the necessary ingredients of justice; as the pathway to moving forward. It makes me ponder how different post-war Europe might have been had we had a truth and reconciliation commission instead of the Nuremberg Trials.
This is why Nelson Mandela was so important to me - truth and reconciliation. Listening Mandela forgive those who persecuted him, watching old enemies hug as friends, seeing the victim of a heinous crime look its perpetrator in the eye and say, quite genuinely, "I forgive you" seems to me to be a glimpse into the Kingdom of God.
Books of condolence, memorial concerts and televised tributes have their place, but perhaps the best way to remember this remarkable man would be to create more glimpses of the Kingdom - to seek truth and reconciliation, to strive for freedom and equality, and to work to realise his dream of "work, bread, water and salt for all".
"If there are dreams about a beautiful South Africa, there are roads that read to that goal. Two of these roads could be named goodness and forgiveness." - Madiba.
Nkosi sikelel' iAfrika.
Monday 9 December 2013
Thursday 31 October 2013
Five books that changed my life: 2. Messy Spirituality
Ten years ago today, I woke to the news that Mike Yaconelli had died in a car accident. Just a month earlier, I had the privilege of spending a weekend with Mike when he was keynote speaker at the Church of Scotland's National Youth Assembly. Mike was the founder and greatest critic of modern youth ministry, a Bible college drop-out, pastor to what he described as the "slowest growing church in North America" and the author of the second book that changed my life...
2. Messy Spirituality, by Mike Yaconelli
When I was 14, I started going to church. One of the best and worst thing I discovered was that it was a place packed with fantastic people: great because they were so kind and loving, but bad because they all seemed so perfect - so holy - that my life looked so flawed and imperfect by comparison. It was like driving a beat-up Austin Allegro amidst a sea of brand new Aston Martins.
No one ever said or did anything to make me think that, it was just how things felt. After a few years of feeling like this, I was getting close to giving up on Christianity because I was never going to attain that high standard. I've always been used to passing things, but it seemed that as a follower of Jesus, I was doomed to fail.
Enter Mike Yaconelli. When I met Mike, I was 16 and he was 61. He introduced himself saying, "Hello. I'm Mike, and I'm a mess" and spent the next four days speaking about what he called "Messy Spirituality", his contention that our messed-up, scattered, complicated lives are the very place we encounter God.
It's impossible to understate the impact that my short encounter with Mike Yaconelli and the book Messy Spirituality had on my life. For the first time, they spoke to me of God as I understood God. For the first time, I prayed honestly, rather than saying the churchy things I thought I was supposed to. For the first time, rather than walking away, I began to wonder if maybe God was calling me to share my messy spirituality with others.
Ten years later, I'm still a mess. I'm still up-and-down, in-and-out, now-I-believe-now-I-don't. I'm still unfinished, incompetent and odd. And I'm still a disciple. A messy disciple.
2. Messy Spirituality, by Mike Yaconelli
No one ever said or did anything to make me think that, it was just how things felt. After a few years of feeling like this, I was getting close to giving up on Christianity because I was never going to attain that high standard. I've always been used to passing things, but it seemed that as a follower of Jesus, I was doomed to fail.
Enter Mike Yaconelli. When I met Mike, I was 16 and he was 61. He introduced himself saying, "Hello. I'm Mike, and I'm a mess" and spent the next four days speaking about what he called "Messy Spirituality", his contention that our messed-up, scattered, complicated lives are the very place we encounter God.
"Sadly, 'spiritual' has most commonly come to mean people who pray all day long, read their Bibles constantly, never get angry or rattled, possess spiritual powers and have the inside track to God... but what about the rest of us?" (Messy Spirituality, Mike Yaconelli, Hodder & Stoughton 2001)It's this "rest of us" that Mike addresses in his book Messy Spirituality. He contends that God chooses "messy" people - "inconsistent messy, up-and-down messy, in-and-out messy, now-I-believe-now-I-don't messy" people. People like Noah, David, Abraham, Lot, Saul, Solomon, Rahab, Sarah. People like me. Far from making me a failure, Messy Spirituality claims that unfinishedness, incompetence and oddness are the hallmarks of discipleship. After all, as Mike said, "Christianity isn't about staying within the lines: it's about the joy of colouring." If any of that affronts you, comforts you or intrigues you, read the book. In fact, even if it doesn't, read the book anyway. You won't regret it.
It's impossible to understate the impact that my short encounter with Mike Yaconelli and the book Messy Spirituality had on my life. For the first time, they spoke to me of God as I understood God. For the first time, I prayed honestly, rather than saying the churchy things I thought I was supposed to. For the first time, rather than walking away, I began to wonder if maybe God was calling me to share my messy spirituality with others.
Ten years later, I'm still a mess. I'm still up-and-down, in-and-out, now-I-believe-now-I-don't. I'm still unfinished, incompetent and odd. And I'm still a disciple. A messy disciple.
Saturday 5 October 2013
Five books that changed my life: 1. The Nickle Nackle Tree
Since we've moved house, I do a lot less commuting and I was determined to do something useful with that extra time so I've started reading more. I've been discovering some fantastic new books, but also re-reading books that I haven't opened for years and it's really reminded me of how powerful books can be. Over the next few weeks, I'm going to be sharing 5 books that changed my life, presented in chronological order of my reading them.
So, here it is: the first book that changed my life...
I was less than two years old when I first encountered The Nickle Nackle Tree. It's a counting book full of silly rhymes and colourful pictures, helping children count to 14. Yes, 14. No tens or dozens for this unorthodox book.
I don't know if it was the six sleepy Snooze birds or the thirteen grouchy Grudge birds, but something about this book had me hooked. Every night of my infant life, I wanted The Nickle Nackle Tree read to me.
In fact, it was read to me so much, that by my second birthday, I could recite it off by heart. Not only that, but I had also learned where all the page turns were. This meant that I no longer needed someone to read it to me: I could recite it from memory and turn the pages at the correct points.
When my parents were at work, I spent much of the time with my gran. I was her only grandchild, so she liked any excuse to show me off a bit. This often involved a trip to the butcher's, the Post Office or the hair dresser for no particular reason other than the usual chorus of, "Ooh, look how big he's getting."
Often, when visiting Mrs Henderson in the Post Office, I would perform a wee turn (my own rendition of Donald, Where's Yer Troosers? was a particular hit) in exchange for a sherbet lollipop. Imagine Mrs Henderson's delight, then, when this precocious 2 year old walked into her shop, cleared some space among the envelopes and brown tape to take a seat on the bottom shelf and (appeared to) read aloud:
"In the Manglemunching Forest there's a Nickle Nackle tree,
growing Nickle Nackle berries that are red as red can be..."
I had it down to a fine art, with my combination of funny voices for the cheerful chirpy piles of cheeky Chizzle birds and knowing precisely the moment to turn the page. Mrs Henderson nearly fainted, astonished by the young literacy prodigy she saw before her. Mr gran was so caught up in the limelight of her genius grandchild that she played along, and pretty soon I was demonstrating my "reading skills" to Mr Shah the shopkeeper, Mr Boyle the butcher and even the minister Mr McLean.
It can't have taken long for people to work out that the reason I always "read" the same book wasn't simply artistic temperament or personal preference, but the taste of celebrity this book brought me was nice while it lasted.
Last year for my birthday, my parents bought me a copy of The Nickle Nackle Tree and, although I still know it off by heart, I do enjoy sitting with the book, reading aloud and turning the pages at the right moment, casting my mind back to a time when the things that mattered most in life were Mrs Henderson's sherbet lollipops.
So, here it is: the first book that changed my life...
1. The Nickle Nackle Tree, by Lynley Dodd
I don't know if it was the six sleepy Snooze birds or the thirteen grouchy Grudge birds, but something about this book had me hooked. Every night of my infant life, I wanted The Nickle Nackle Tree read to me.
In fact, it was read to me so much, that by my second birthday, I could recite it off by heart. Not only that, but I had also learned where all the page turns were. This meant that I no longer needed someone to read it to me: I could recite it from memory and turn the pages at the correct points.
When my parents were at work, I spent much of the time with my gran. I was her only grandchild, so she liked any excuse to show me off a bit. This often involved a trip to the butcher's, the Post Office or the hair dresser for no particular reason other than the usual chorus of, "Ooh, look how big he's getting."
Often, when visiting Mrs Henderson in the Post Office, I would perform a wee turn (my own rendition of Donald, Where's Yer Troosers? was a particular hit) in exchange for a sherbet lollipop. Imagine Mrs Henderson's delight, then, when this precocious 2 year old walked into her shop, cleared some space among the envelopes and brown tape to take a seat on the bottom shelf and (appeared to) read aloud:
"In the Manglemunching Forest there's a Nickle Nackle tree,
growing Nickle Nackle berries that are red as red can be..."
I had it down to a fine art, with my combination of funny voices for the cheerful chirpy piles of cheeky Chizzle birds and knowing precisely the moment to turn the page. Mrs Henderson nearly fainted, astonished by the young literacy prodigy she saw before her. Mr gran was so caught up in the limelight of her genius grandchild that she played along, and pretty soon I was demonstrating my "reading skills" to Mr Shah the shopkeeper, Mr Boyle the butcher and even the minister Mr McLean.
It can't have taken long for people to work out that the reason I always "read" the same book wasn't simply artistic temperament or personal preference, but the taste of celebrity this book brought me was nice while it lasted.
Last year for my birthday, my parents bought me a copy of The Nickle Nackle Tree and, although I still know it off by heart, I do enjoy sitting with the book, reading aloud and turning the pages at the right moment, casting my mind back to a time when the things that mattered most in life were Mrs Henderson's sherbet lollipops.
Friday 27 September 2013
Tunisia's Hopeful Youth
In January 2011, Tunisian president Ben Ali was ousted in the Tunisian Revolution, the first uprising of the so-called "Arab Spring". Despite the country achieving an average GDP growth of 5%, citizens endured poor living conditions, high unemployment, food inflation and lacked of freedom of speech, leading to the mass protests. Later that same year, Tunisia held its first fully democratic elections.
We visited Tunisia shortly after the elections had taken place, and we found the country still very tense. (The fact that we were unknowingly staying in the same street as the former president's palace probably didn't help matters.) There was still a state of emergency declared, a curfew imposed and police checkpoints every few hundred yards. There was a fatal shooting very close to where we stayed, and we relied on correspondence from the Foreign Office to keep up to date with the situation. And yet, I couldn't help but fall in love with this country and its people.
Earlier this month, we returned to Tunisia and found something different - hope.
Some tensions still remain (there was a shooting at a border crossing earlier this week), however the country has returned to a relatively peaceful and stable situation. The police checkpoints remain, but aren't as regular or as threatening as before. The country still suffers great poverty, which is particularly evident amongst the elderly and in the bidonvilles, or shanty towns. The main industry in the Sahel region is olive farming, and agriculture still relies largely on horses and mules rather than mechanisation. However, the young people of Tunisia tell a different story.
From the way they talk about their country through to their acute sense of fashion, the young people of Tunisia show a confidence in their own future. Doubtless there is an aspect of Western-style consumerism tied up in this, but largely it shows that they are enjoying the freedom that they now have, and have a firm belief that the future is theirs for the making. They place a high value on education, and on equal rights for men and women, two things that were fought for by the founder of the Republic of Tunisia Habib Bourguiba.
They radiate a valuable message for us all - there is hope.
We visited Tunisia shortly after the elections had taken place, and we found the country still very tense. (The fact that we were unknowingly staying in the same street as the former president's palace probably didn't help matters.) There was still a state of emergency declared, a curfew imposed and police checkpoints every few hundred yards. There was a fatal shooting very close to where we stayed, and we relied on correspondence from the Foreign Office to keep up to date with the situation. And yet, I couldn't help but fall in love with this country and its people.
Earlier this month, we returned to Tunisia and found something different - hope.
Some tensions still remain (there was a shooting at a border crossing earlier this week), however the country has returned to a relatively peaceful and stable situation. The police checkpoints remain, but aren't as regular or as threatening as before. The country still suffers great poverty, which is particularly evident amongst the elderly and in the bidonvilles, or shanty towns. The main industry in the Sahel region is olive farming, and agriculture still relies largely on horses and mules rather than mechanisation. However, the young people of Tunisia tell a different story.
From the way they talk about their country through to their acute sense of fashion, the young people of Tunisia show a confidence in their own future. Doubtless there is an aspect of Western-style consumerism tied up in this, but largely it shows that they are enjoying the freedom that they now have, and have a firm belief that the future is theirs for the making. They place a high value on education, and on equal rights for men and women, two things that were fought for by the founder of the Republic of Tunisia Habib Bourguiba.
They radiate a valuable message for us all - there is hope.
Thursday 29 August 2013
Camels, camps and candle-lit cats
I haven't found the time to blog for a while. It's been a strange few weeks involving riding an imaginary camel, delivering several hundred cards from God and a close encounter with Thomas Chalmers's umbrella. Oh, and the cat set herself on fire.
August is always a hectic month - holiday clubs, National Youth Assembly, Council meetings, youth residential weekends, schools starting back, enrolment of clubs and organisations plus all the usual day-to-day workload. It's hardly surprising that I haven't managed to take a day off for a while.
In chatting to fellow youth workers, many seem to be in the same boat. We all agree that August is just one of those months where it's hard to find any time for ourselves. Just one of those months...
In a staff worship session at NYA, we were challenged to face up to "the lies we tell ourselves", and I suspect for many youth and children's workers, the biggest lie we tell ourselves is that it's "just one of those months". If we're being honest, every month is "one of those months". Those involved in ministry - and in particular ministry with young people - are terrible at taking time off.
We pretend to ourselves that busyness is good. We convince ourselves that if we're busy we must be doing a good job. When we're not busy, we feel guilty. These are the lies we tell ourselves.
A while ago a Methodist colleague and myself were going through another busy time that was "just one of those months" and wondered whether Horatius Bonar's hymn should be re-written:
Maybe it's time for some honesty. Maybe it's time to recognise the burnout rate amongst youth workers. Maybe it's time to realise that if we are to minister well to others, we need also to care for ourselves. Maybe it's time to take Mike Yaconelli's advice and "give God 60%". Maybe it's time to hear and take seriously the invitation "Come unto me and rest."
August is always a hectic month - holiday clubs, National Youth Assembly, Council meetings, youth residential weekends, schools starting back, enrolment of clubs and organisations plus all the usual day-to-day workload. It's hardly surprising that I haven't managed to take a day off for a while.
In chatting to fellow youth workers, many seem to be in the same boat. We all agree that August is just one of those months where it's hard to find any time for ourselves. Just one of those months...
In a staff worship session at NYA, we were challenged to face up to "the lies we tell ourselves", and I suspect for many youth and children's workers, the biggest lie we tell ourselves is that it's "just one of those months". If we're being honest, every month is "one of those months". Those involved in ministry - and in particular ministry with young people - are terrible at taking time off.
We pretend to ourselves that busyness is good. We convince ourselves that if we're busy we must be doing a good job. When we're not busy, we feel guilty. These are the lies we tell ourselves.
A while ago a Methodist colleague and myself were going through another busy time that was "just one of those months" and wondered whether Horatius Bonar's hymn should be re-written:
I heard the voice of Jesus say,
"Come unto me and rest:
lay down your weary head on me
unless you're C of S."
I came to Jesus as I was
so weary and worn and sad.
He said, "Think of the Methodists -
they're nearly just as bad."
Tuesday 23 July 2013
And deliver us from deliveries...
Each day in Mumbai, around 5,000 dabbawallas successfully deliver almost 200,000 boxes containing hot cooked lunches. These are collected from the homes of suburban office workers by bicycle, taken to a sorting depot, loaded onto a train, sorted once again and then delivered by bike to the workplaces so quickly that they are still piping hot.
If this weren't impressive enough, there is no electronic tracking system involved - no barcodes, no PDAs, no "sign here, please". In fact, the vast majority of dabbawallas are illiterate. The only system for getting such a vast quantity of boxes to the right place is a series of coloured markings painted on the lid of the boxes.
Sounds like a recipe for disaster. But it's not. Dabbawalla deliveries are amongst the most reliable in the world - with only 1 mistake in every 6,000,000 deliveries.
Compare that to the 1 mistake in every 5,000 parcels made by one global courier company. Even our beloved Royal Mail only aims to deliver 93% of 1st Class letters the next working day.
Why the sudden interest in logistic statistics? Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin...
A couple of weeks ago, I ordered a new bed and paid extra to have it delivered quickly. Using their online delivery tool, I selected to have it delivered last Tuesday when there would be someone at home. But, we soon ran out of Tuesday and nothing had been delivered, and that meant several hours trying to crack a voice-recognition helpline to get through to a fellow humanoid... who pressed the wrong button and put me back to the start of the process.
Eventually, four departments later, they informed me that the parcel had never been dispatched and that the earliest they could deliver it would be Friday. Cue a diary reshuffle.
Friday arrived, and to be sure I wasn't wasting valuable time again, I gave the company a ring to check it was definitely coming. Yes. "Guaranteed by 5pm" I was told. And yet 5pm came and went with no sign of a delivery.
Here we go again. (Voice recognition and Scottish accents mix as well as oil and water.)
Turns out it was never going to be delivered. Yes, they told me that it would. Yes, the online tracking system told me it had been dispatched. Yes, it's been sitting in a warehouse 20 minutes along the road for 3 days now. But, "unfortunately" they said, company policy means they require 4 working days between it arriving in the warehouse and it departing the warehouse.
So they are going to deliver it today. Allegedly. They've only got an hour left to do it before the whole charade begins again.
The company concerned employs the use of online tracking systems, barcodes, scanners, automated hubs and all manner of other contraptions. One can't help feel they'd be better employing a man with a bike and a series of coloured paint splodges.
If this weren't impressive enough, there is no electronic tracking system involved - no barcodes, no PDAs, no "sign here, please". In fact, the vast majority of dabbawallas are illiterate. The only system for getting such a vast quantity of boxes to the right place is a series of coloured markings painted on the lid of the boxes.
Sounds like a recipe for disaster. But it's not. Dabbawalla deliveries are amongst the most reliable in the world - with only 1 mistake in every 6,000,000 deliveries.
Compare that to the 1 mistake in every 5,000 parcels made by one global courier company. Even our beloved Royal Mail only aims to deliver 93% of 1st Class letters the next working day.
Why the sudden interest in logistic statistics? Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin...
A couple of weeks ago, I ordered a new bed and paid extra to have it delivered quickly. Using their online delivery tool, I selected to have it delivered last Tuesday when there would be someone at home. But, we soon ran out of Tuesday and nothing had been delivered, and that meant several hours trying to crack a voice-recognition helpline to get through to a fellow humanoid... who pressed the wrong button and put me back to the start of the process.
Eventually, four departments later, they informed me that the parcel had never been dispatched and that the earliest they could deliver it would be Friday. Cue a diary reshuffle.
Friday arrived, and to be sure I wasn't wasting valuable time again, I gave the company a ring to check it was definitely coming. Yes. "Guaranteed by 5pm" I was told. And yet 5pm came and went with no sign of a delivery.
Here we go again. (Voice recognition and Scottish accents mix as well as oil and water.)
Turns out it was never going to be delivered. Yes, they told me that it would. Yes, the online tracking system told me it had been dispatched. Yes, it's been sitting in a warehouse 20 minutes along the road for 3 days now. But, "unfortunately" they said, company policy means they require 4 working days between it arriving in the warehouse and it departing the warehouse.
So they are going to deliver it today. Allegedly. They've only got an hour left to do it before the whole charade begins again.
The company concerned employs the use of online tracking systems, barcodes, scanners, automated hubs and all manner of other contraptions. One can't help feel they'd be better employing a man with a bike and a series of coloured paint splodges.
Tuesday 16 July 2013
Paradise by the dashboard light
Last week I had a wee jaunt down to Englandshire, and that meant spending time in some of my favourite places on earth - motorway services.
Not everyone's idea of paradise, I'll grant you, but behind the exterior of soggy pasties, extortionate prices and urinals that are just that wee bit too close together lies something of great beauty.
Now, I'm not talking about these modern, wannabe service stations sited on or by junctions where any old pedestrian can turn up. I'm talking about bona fide, between-junction services where there is no other way of reaching them than from the motorway. There's something about that isolated world that's been magical to me ever since I was a child.
For most of my childhood, we tended to go camping in France, and the long drive down to Portsmouth to catch the ferry meant two things: indulging in a bit of Eddie Stobart spotting and multiple visits to motorway services.
First stop was always the Welcome Break at Abington (not in the class of bona fide services, but I'll let that pass!) as I was always feeling travel sick after the journey over the hills through Lanark. On occasion, we'd manage as far as the RoadChef at Annandale Water, a particular favourite as it had a man-made lake where I could feed the ducks, second only to the marvel that is the Westmoreland at Tebay.
From there, I would measure where I was in the country by what service station we were passing, offering helpful tips to my parents along the way: "Don't stop here, dad, there's a playground if you keep going till Sandbach..." My nine-year-old knowledge of M6 service stations could have rivalled any trucker's.
There was an inevitability to each stop: we'd always end up eating in a Granary, I'd always buy a travel version of a game I already had and my mum would always say, "it's just nice to stretch your legs."
I don't know what was so special about these visits. Perhaps it was the break from Eddie Stobart spotting. Perhaps it was the giant sized confectionary found nowhere else. Perhaps. But I would like to think it was that little bit of magic created by this other-worldly isolated realm, this kingdom with only one way in and one way out, packed with shops and fast-food restaurants and arcade games. The magic of those little tins of flour-coated travel sweets, miniature games of battleships and cafes on the bridge over the carriageway. The feeling of being somewhere different, like the feeling you get in an airport departure lounge. The feeling that in the motorway services, anything can happen.
Then again, maybe it's just nice to stretch your legs...
Not everyone's idea of paradise, I'll grant you, but behind the exterior of soggy pasties, extortionate prices and urinals that are just that wee bit too close together lies something of great beauty.
Now, I'm not talking about these modern, wannabe service stations sited on or by junctions where any old pedestrian can turn up. I'm talking about bona fide, between-junction services where there is no other way of reaching them than from the motorway. There's something about that isolated world that's been magical to me ever since I was a child.
For most of my childhood, we tended to go camping in France, and the long drive down to Portsmouth to catch the ferry meant two things: indulging in a bit of Eddie Stobart spotting and multiple visits to motorway services.
First stop was always the Welcome Break at Abington (not in the class of bona fide services, but I'll let that pass!) as I was always feeling travel sick after the journey over the hills through Lanark. On occasion, we'd manage as far as the RoadChef at Annandale Water, a particular favourite as it had a man-made lake where I could feed the ducks, second only to the marvel that is the Westmoreland at Tebay.
From there, I would measure where I was in the country by what service station we were passing, offering helpful tips to my parents along the way: "Don't stop here, dad, there's a playground if you keep going till Sandbach..." My nine-year-old knowledge of M6 service stations could have rivalled any trucker's.
There was an inevitability to each stop: we'd always end up eating in a Granary, I'd always buy a travel version of a game I already had and my mum would always say, "it's just nice to stretch your legs."
I don't know what was so special about these visits. Perhaps it was the break from Eddie Stobart spotting. Perhaps it was the giant sized confectionary found nowhere else. Perhaps. But I would like to think it was that little bit of magic created by this other-worldly isolated realm, this kingdom with only one way in and one way out, packed with shops and fast-food restaurants and arcade games. The magic of those little tins of flour-coated travel sweets, miniature games of battleships and cafes on the bridge over the carriageway. The feeling of being somewhere different, like the feeling you get in an airport departure lounge. The feeling that in the motorway services, anything can happen.
Then again, maybe it's just nice to stretch your legs...
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