Hair today, gone tomorrow

There are a few catchphrases for which those of us in the profession are justly famous already. 
    First, there’s Been on holiday yet this year, then, sir? 
    Then Did you see the match last night, sir? In my day, of course, this referred to Spear-Throwing Contests and Date Pip Spitting Premier League.
     And the classic Something for the weekend? 
     Not forgetting the other things we do, like the flick-and-drape motion with the cover-all sheet at the start; that trick with the hand mirror to show the customer what his new cut looks like at the back; and making sure you take your time with sorting out the change to try to ensure a tip. Yes, it’s not just Advanced Razor Technique at Hairdressing School.
     Oh, look at this: I’ve started the story in the middle. Forgive me, but let’s just go back to square one and take another run at it.

My wife Mary (hair of gold, and lips like cherries) and I (who have nothing) ran a donkey sanctuary. Though I say it myself, MulesRAss was quite a success, and we used to breed the animals and trade rather briskly.
     But we didn’t always plan ahead properly exactly as farmers should, and we fell into the error of having a favourite. Mary foolishly gave him a name that kind of established an emotional link, if such a thing should ever be admitted! But, as I commented at the time ‘She’s a lady with a strong will!’
     So the animal was known as Stubnazzar (this eventually became a traditional name for donkeys). Anyway, we reared him by hand from a tiny foal, and cared for him. When the time came for him to be sold on – well, of course we couldn’t bear to part with him. He grew up and became a permanent fixture around the farm as his offspring and their offspring came along and were traded. After all, that’s what we were in business to do, wasn’t it? But dear old Stubnazzar stayed with us throughout.
     After ten years together, running MulesRAss, my caring, sweet Mary took ill. I told her ‘I just want your extra time, and your kiss,’ but it was not to be. She faded fast and passed away in the spring.
     I buried her in a small field to the south of the homestead, and the only donkey permitted to graze there was Stubnazzar. Our children used to wonder why, but I felt there was a connection between Mary and I that would never be lost all the while Stubnazzar was given that special privilege.
     But the best laid plans, eh? Someone decided to do some archery practice one day, and sadly old Stubnazzar was accidentally struck in the eye. It didn’t just blind him; he died of the resultant infection, and we buried him in that same field.
     I’d spend some evenings, after the work was done, staring out over the field to the south of the homestead, wistfully considering what might have been.
     I used also to lie in bed and miss Mary, and dream occasionally of her riding Stubnazzar in whatever afterlife there was.
     Business faded a little (perhaps I lost heart in it), and one day I was offered a small number of gold coins in exchange for some of my land. I decided to sell up.
     Before I could stop the new owners or explain the sentimental significance, they went on and just helped themselves, ploughing and turning the green, green grass of homestead into arable farmland.
     They ploughed without knowing that they were desecrating the graves of Stubnazzar and (more importantly) of my wife. There was little I could do, as the damage had already been done.
     The new owner apologised when he discovered the mistake, and he did manage to salvage Stubnazzar’s jawbone, and presented it to me, as if I might want to display it above the fireplace, which was just odd.
     I left it out on the verandah over the summer to scorch and bleach in the sun, but one day, it was stolen! Can you believe it? And so the final link to my past, to my wife, to our family pet and to the business was taken from me.
     I discovered that the jawbone had been swiped by a long-haired, scrawny Israelite of doubtful honour, who apparently used it as a weapon against a large number of people – some say a thousand men were killed in the battle.
     He must have been a surprisingly tough guy to be able to swing a heavy jawbone and despatch so many foes! I was angry with this man (I learned his name was Samson) for this act of violence and careless disregard for my precious property.
     I couldn’t understand how he was so strong, because to look at him, he didn’t particularly look like he worked out. You’d never guess he had superhuman strength. So I knew there must be some secret: maybe he prays to a special god or spirit; perhaps he was cursed by a witch when he was a child, and it’s kind of helped in some strange way; I even spent a while thinking it must be to do with the horses that pull his chariot. But it seems not. Don’t know.

     Anyway, I got the money together from the sale of MulesRAss and learned an entirely new trade: hairdressing.
     That’s brought us up to where you came in. Right.
     I’ve been running my own place for some time, and we regularly get a queue of men sitting on the bench, reading such publications as The Judge, Gaza Gazette [incorporating Joppa Times], Philistine Post along with some old copies of What Chariot? Of course, we also stock the traditional so-called adult material, such as Wellbeing & Competence and Blokes Exclusively as well as Posh Rooftop Flats – formerly called Five Dwelling, of course. While they are waiting, customers chat about the local news and goings-on, and sometimes three or four of them sing a bit, too.
     I had some trouble deciding what to call my business, as finding the catchiest name is compulsive. I toyed with several: Curl Up & Dye; Prime Cuts; Comb Fly With Me; Mane Attraction; Clippetty-Do-Dah; Shear Delight; Barber of De Ville; and Best Little Hair House in Town; but finally settled on Parting Ways [Editor’s note: Obviously, this was long before the times of either the Roman Emperors or Las Vegas, which is why he didn’t choose Scissor’s Palace.]
     Now, Hamon, one of my friends from the Valley of Sorek, dated this really beautiful brunette named Delilah. She’s an absolute stunner, and frankly Hamon’s not anywhere close to being in her league. He’s a nice guy and all that but she’s looking for an adventurous, wild-at-heart kind of bloke. And she found one when Samson (yes, the same man who treated Stubnazzar’s jawbone so shamefully) came along and they got it together.
     Delilah appeared to like Samson, but I’ve heard rumours that they only met after the local Philistines had bribed her into trying to discover his big secret about his strength. Now, knowing the way things worked out, I’ve realised she wasn’t a good person. She was happy to be bribed, and the Philistines were thoroughly nasty.
     You see, to look at him, Samson was just another ruggedly handsome dude. Any woman he wants, he'll get, and he will break any heart without regret, probably.
     But he had this extraordinary strength, as I’ve already mentioned. Not only did he do great damage to one thousand men with Stubnazzar’s jawbone, the story goes that he once tore a lion apart with his bare hands! And that tale is told with great awe by people who think it quite normal to be able to tear a young goat apart, which is something (I reckon) that would require considerable strength anyway, unless it was a very young goat, or one which had been slow-roasted for quite a while.
     Samson’s reputation went before him. On the face of it he was just a carpenter, but there was a lot of talk about the day he’d killed one thousand men. It seems he got involved in a dispute with Philistines, and torched some farms, and it all got very nasty and ended up with Samson burning his first wife and her father, but not before three thousand Philistines attacked him and he swung Stubnazzar’s jaw… well, you know that bit.
     Anyway, despite Samson being strong and violent and seriously dangerous at times, Delilah had him wrapped firmly around her little finger (or so she reckoned).
     Once I’d checked out the woman, I could understand why men fall at her feet and drool. She was very easy on the eyes, with a bounteous figure, long, tanned limbs and lips that held such promise. Her eyes were that perfect shade of hazel, and everything about her oozed sensuality. It was extremely difficult to concentrate on what she was saying. Some might call her a sex-bomb – and she was primed and about to explode.
     You see, she came into my shop one evening after I’d closed. I was very impressed, and not a little enchanted, I have to admit. Her perfume was potent. ‘I wasn’t going to visit, and Mama told me not to come, but I simply couldn’t stay away, darling!’
     I began to wonder why, but wasn’t in any way wishing her gone. She asked a few questions about my experience as a barber, and then she sat down, crossed her lovely legs and started telling me about Samson. ‘He’s so determined, and so strong. But I really, seriously, need to know exactly where his strength comes from. So last night I just confronted him with the question.’
     ‘Oh, you should be careful,’ I said. ‘Word has it that his last wife tried to find out, and she ended up with crispy edges.’
     ‘M’mm, I’ve heard that. Usually, he’s calm, but there are times when something snaps. I think the mistake she made was that she whined and nagged at him until he caved in, and told her some other secret he was withholding from her. She blabbed to his enemies and he got very angry and it all went fig-shaped.’
     ‘Best not to upset him, then, Delilah,’ I said, with a smile.
     She played with her hair, and smoothed her flimsy white dress over her long, slim thighs. ‘Well, as I say, I asked him outright about his amazing strength, and he told me that he would be helpless if I bound him with cords made from seven strands of brand new rope.’
     ‘I can’t imagine that would be suff…’
     ‘Please don’t interrupt me – although I have to agree that I thought it was an unlikely story. But I tried it anyway. A few nights ago we were in the textile mill (a place we often go) and afterwards he drifted off to sleep as usual. I bound his hands and feet while he slept, using the exact materials he had mentioned. But when the men came to take him away, I felt I had to warn him, so I called out “The Philistines are upon you!” and he woke up. He snapped the bonds like they were cotton threads and chased his attackers out of the place. Pathetic!’
     She shook her head, and flicked a strand of hair that had fallen over her face (what a lovely face!) back behind her ear.
     ‘Why did you wake him?’ I asked.
     ‘Well, I do have some feelings for him, and it would look like I’d stitched him up big time if his enemies happened to come along just when I’d tied him up, wouldn’t it? Besides, I wanted to see if what he told me about the rope was true.’
     She smiled at me, and my heart melted. She ran her long, slim fingers through her shining, gorgeous hair, and my lower jaw slackened in response. She made herself extremely comfortable on the cushion, and I yielded silently, enjoying every glorious moment in her enticing company.
     ‘Please go on,’ I said, feebly.
     She smiled and continued her story. ‘Well, I told him I was disappointed that he’d fibbed to me, and he looked suitably ashamed of himself. So I asked him again to tell me the source of his strength. He admitted this time that it was his hair. “So, how can you be subdued?” I asked. He explained that the only thing strong enough to hold him down was the loom – did I say we usually make love in the textile mill, near the loom? Samson sometimes helps out with building the looms – you know, he got some string and he got some wood; he did some carving and he was good so they took him on. Anyway, that night I waited until he was asleep and took his hair and weaved it into the loom – into the fabric of the cloth that was being woven, and tied it all off with a pin, which held it really tightly. There was no way he was going to be able to pull his hair free.’
     ‘And did it work?’
     ‘It really did, although not the way I’d reckoned,’ she laughed. ‘When the blokes came in to attack him, I found once again that I couldn’t help myself, and I cried out “Samson! Wake up! The Philistines are upon you!” and he jumped out of bed, loom and all. He whirled it around his head using only the strength of his neck muscles, and did some serious harm to the attackers before they could get out of the way.’
     ‘Amazing!’ I chuckled, imagining the scene.
     ‘You’re right! Getting a loom in the face isn’t all that much fun!’
     ‘I can see this wasn’t going to be the long-term answer.’
     ‘Uh-huh. Oh, may I have a refill?’ She held out her wine cup, and I topped her up. The act of leaning forward had caused her hair again to flop over her face. She gently swept it back; she shifted herself on the cushion and ended up a little nearer to me.
     I was enticed, bewitched, besotted and enthused.
     She seemed quite taken with my locks. ‘Your hair is so lovely – you don’t mind if I…?’
    I didn’t mind a little bit. I was simultaneously delighted and alarmed as she ran her long, slim fingers through my hair. This woman had what it takes and was willing to spread it around…
     She put her hands back into her lap, looking for all the world as though she was only just resisting the temptation to kiss me. She managed, but as I say, only just.
     Her tale continued. ‘I went all weepy and persuaded him to tell me the truth this time. He said he’d nearly told me last time – it is actually his hair, but he’s never had any kind of a haircut all his life, for some bizarre or obscure religious reason.’ She stopped talking and looked into my eyes. I surrendered.
     ‘Ah, I see.’ And, actually, I did. ‘It’s all starting to make sense now,’ I said, my voice shaking slightly. ‘You want me to creep into your room at night and give him a shaved head, right?’
     ‘Oh, would you? And I’d be ever-so grateful…’ She looked me up and down, and repositioned herself, ready to move closer.
     ‘I’d really like to help you…’ I was so eager, but suddenly my nerve failed me. ‘H’mm… but I fear that this time I’ll be the corpse if he wakes up and sees me there with a razor in my hand. Tell you what – I could lend you a razor…’
     ‘What do I have to do to persuade you to help me?’ she said with a pout. Her hand was on my leg; my morals were in the mangle.
     ‘It’s not that I’m unwilling, but it would be a crime to ever let you… I’m just thinking it might be more sensible for you to…’
     ‘But you’re the man with the skills and I thought you wanted to help me. I’d be terribly grateful, you know.’ She leaned forward, letting her tunic fall open slightly at the point of greatest strain, and brushed my face gently with her lips, simultaneously running her hand along the length of my thigh. She was so, so good at this!
     I caved. ‘You can strop my razor whenever you want. There’s something about you, baby, I like! Tell me where and when to turn up, and I’ll give him a short back and sides, as we call it in the trade.’
     ‘What a sweetheart!’ she said, quietly. There was no need for her to speak loudly, as her face was very near to mine. She wrapped her hands around the back of my head, and kissed me on the lips. I lost my voice, my self-control and my ability to discern between breathing and drowning.
     So, the game was afoot. That night, I went to the textile mill. The door was unlocked, just as she had promised. I slipped inside and went to where the couple were sleeping, near where the loom used to be. Delilah was on the mattress next to Samson, their hair spread out on their pillows.
     Massively emboldened by the sight of this deeply desirable woman gently dozing, I woke her with a kiss. She took hold of my hands and drew me close.
     ‘Darling! Just help yourself to my lips, to my arms – just say the word, and they are yours!’ she murmured, and returned my kisses with some passion as I lay down beside her. I was troubled that Samson might wake up at any moment, but on the other hand I had never dared believe I’d be in her bedroom – on her bed – embracing her, and being welcomed like this! After what turned out to be just a disappointingly brief cuddle, (but with hints of so much more) she indicated that I should get on with the hair-cutting job.
     I took out my razor and opened it, gingerly slicing a little off the length of one curl of Samson’s magnificent locks.
     He didn’t wake at this, so I cut more and more – eventually, he was reduced to a short style reminiscent of the army. Then I gently placed my finger and thumb on his temples, and, with short, decisive strokes, shaved from his head the hair that remained.
     He was still fast asleep (perhaps she had given him strong drink to induce stupor?), and utterly, amazingly, powerlessly bald. His head looked like a hard-boiled egg, dusted with fine black pepper.
     I smiled at Delilah, and she patted my hand in thanks. She winked saucily, wiggled her cute little pussycat nose, and I reckoned I was on a promise. She went to the door to signal the attackers that the hair was gone. I knew it was high time I made myself scarce. I indicated that I would go, but she held my hand and whispered ‘No, don’t go, darling. When they have removed him, we can be alone together. And I’m sure you’ve been hoping I’d say that.’ Now, that was one flirty chick!
     Obviously, stupidly, lustfully, I stayed.
     The attackers burst in. Once again, Delilah shouted ‘Samson, the Philistines are upon you!’ and he woke.
     He looked quizzically at Delilah, and frowned when he saw me. Then he noticed the hair all over the mattress. He ran his hand over his head, and shouted ‘No!’ He was just in time to be overwhelmed with extreme ease by the Philistines. His legendary strength had evaporated like the lavender oil hairdressing fragrance I use to keep lice at bay. The attackers wrestled him to the ground with punches and fierce rage, and held him there as one of them grabbed the razor from me.
     I was horrified at what I witnessed; that barbaric Philistine used my razor to gouge out Samson’s eyes, slashing at his face with destructive savagery. There was blood everywhere. Samson roared in pain and rage and helplessness until they led him out of the textile mill and took him away into the night.
     ‘So, it was his hair,’ Delilah said.
     ‘Evidently,’ I replied.
     She took my hand and whispered ‘You did very well. I am so grateful. Perhaps we can meet up some other time so that I can show you exactly how grateful I am, darling. But now, you’d better go. All this blood… makes it look like a crime scene, and we’d better get out of here.’
     It had been a night of high emotion: I was aroused, then scared, then shocked; now frustrated… Surely she knew I had helped her because of the promise, but now she was denying me the pleasures? My passion turned to anger, and I retrieved my razor from where it had been discarded by the eye-gouger, and made my way home.
     She was a wickedly immoral woman and I had been a love-sick fool – or perhaps just a lust-fuelled sicko.
     I only ever saw her once more, several weeks after that dreadful night. She had never replied to my pleading love notes, and never returned to Parting Ways.
     The time I did see her, she didn’t see me at all. It was the day of the Dagon sacrifice, where the Philistines gathered in their temple to worship their god. I was busy in Parting Ways when the procession went past outside, and I stood to watch briefly, and then Delilah went by. It suited her to have converted to Dagonism, I suppose. She was part of the procession, on the arm of a particularly handsome man (I recognised him as a well-known singer. It’s not unusual for her to mix with the wealthy and famous, I suppose). She was clearly spreading her affections about.
     I asked my customers to sit tight and wait for me, as I put down my comb and razor and went outside to – well, I suppose I went outside to see Delilah. She had used me and I felt the need to confront her.
     What was I going to say to her? I think I just wanted to ask why? Why? Why, Delilah, did you treat Samson so shamefully? You let him believe you were lovers (well, they were much more lovers that we had ever been, I realised) when all along you were plotting and being bribed to betray him. And why did you lead me on, entice me and stir up feelings inside me only to drop me like…? Well, I knew the answer to that, but I wanted to shout at her anyway. Surely she deserved some comeback for all the wicked things she had done?
     I didn’t speak to her, as it happened, because as soon as I got outside Parting Ways, I saw Samson, being brought on a cart, with a bandage around where his eyes used to be. From what I could see, his scalp was no longer the shaven egg it had been; his hair had been growing.
     They were clearly about to use him for entertainment. And despite the ways I had disdained him before, and been angry at him for the jawbone, I felt sad that such a mighty fellow should be reduced to this: a dancing freak at a pagan sacrifice-festival. That ain’t the way to have fun, son.
     Anyway, the procession went on down the street and I returned to my customers.
     Later that afternoon, there was the sound of an almighty crash from the town centre, and I joined the crowds who went to investigate. It seems that the Dagon’s Den, as the temple was called, had somehow collapsed, killing many of the thousands who were inside at the time.
     We never heard of Samson again; we didn’t hear of Delilah, either. My guess is that they both died when the building accidentally fell down on top of them.
     I couldn’t forget her, and I couldn’t get the image of her betraying him to those vicious Philistines out of my mind. I’m not proud of my involvement in the sorry tale; and I’m not proud of the disrespect I showed to Samson.
     I do sometimes wonder what became of him, and why he grew his hair long, and what god he prayed to, and how his hair could be the source of his strength anyway.
Didn't meet Samson                      Judges 13:1–16:31
Delilah hires a barber to give Samson a trim and more
•   What motivated the man from MulesRAss & Parting Ways to dishonour Samson? Do those temptations cause you to struggle? How can you protect yourself?
•   Where did Samson get his strength? If not his muscles, was it really his hair? Do you have mighty locks?
•   What really happened in Dagon’s Den? And what’s the significance of the hair re-growing? How many Tom Jones songs are mentioned?

Eighty-one Challenges

It’s never great being number two.
     Well, I didn’t like it much.
     Second place is defeat. And I had been trained to assume I’d be the winner, which is how our army had motivated itself all along. We were fiercely competitive and thoroughly aggressive.
      It was great to be one of the Bronze Helmets, an elite force within the Philistine Army. But I so wanted to be the best, to be the first choice, to be preferred over all others, to be the chief among all-comers, to be selected in the prime spot, to be head honcho, top dog, champion. Just once would have been nice.
      Or so I thought until my name went into the frame.
      At that moment, I was content to be the one in the shadow, to be the assistant, the sub, the follower, on the bench, in the wings, deputy, stand-in, surrogate, and to take the reserve position.

I was born in Gath and my parents were metalworkers. I grew up fit and strong, and was often the victor in fistfights and, later, in sword challenges with schoolmates and at the semi-pro gym where I would take on anyone who dared to challenge me. They usually went away with headaches or flesh wounds (split lip, an eye out or something). I might have been a slightly difficult child, but my parents were proud that I could look after myself, and they spent a lot of time and money crafting a special sword for me to use. The blade was one-and-a-bit cubits long with a very sharp edge; the handle was carved from ivory. It could do some serious damage, and so could I. As a combination, we were pretty much unstoppable.
       I grew up to be four cubits tall, broad in the shoulders, with strong arms and legs and long, flowing brown hair, and became a soldier in the army, just as everyone does.
       As expected – and richly deserved, may I say – I was quickly promoted to the elite squad, and given special training in warfare techniques such as close combat, hand-to-hand fighting, slitting the gizzard of an Edomite, cut, thrust, parry and dodge and all those sorts of things, as well as fearless aggression and how to be a winner.
       The squad had the best of everything: excellent food and fine wines; no squarebashing; no cookhouse duties; our own mess and bar staff; great training equipment; and hand-made customised armour. It’s become a tradition for the lads to have family crests designed and embroidered onto their tunics, painted onto their helmet or shield. One of them even went so far as to have it tattooed onto his bicep!
        My main rival for the top position was a very big guy called Goliath. He was seriously tall (some said nearly six cubits), with hands like ham hocks and he carried a great thick spear – honestly, it could double as a beam for a loom or even the axle for a cart. Every time we had that contest to see who’s the greatest among the Bronze Helmets, he managed to beat off all the opposition.
         Last time, though, I had him licked in the sprinting, jumping and swordfighting. I admit he scored more points than me in the hurdles, the spear-throwing and in the ‘ripping a tree out by its roots with your bare hands’ event. But all that was left was the swatting, where the participants have to defend themselves against sharp stones flung at them with great force by beating them away with a plank. I had always been a lot better than Big G, as his ability to hit small objects wasn’t as finely tuned. I knew it would be close, but I had a feeling in my water that I’d win.
     It’s annoying when something as simple as a visor can make the difference between success and failure. For some reason, my new helmet, complete with family crest, had slightly too much facemask, and seeing out of the slit at the front was awkward. Big G had a bronze helmet as well, of course (the distinctive for our elite force), but no face-guard to obscure his view. True, there was a slight danger in this design, and it demonstrated an arrogant attitude, but he was very fast when it came to dodging and avoiding any blows to his face.
      But my hefty faceguard spoiled my performance in the competition, and he won by a whisker – neither of us scored highly, but he scored slightly more than me.
      So he was named King’s Champion once again. That made it three years’ running, which was deeply annoying, and motivated me to pension off my helmet maker, with the edge of my sword providing severance pay.
      And all this explains why – when we went down to the Valley of Elah to face off with the army of Saul & the Israelites – Big G was sent out as our champion.
      Our senior officers had a scheme. We could, of course, have done the usual thing and engaged the army of the Israelites in a mass bundle with lots of bloodshed and injuries. Of course we could and indeed, usually did.
       But it was going to be a lot more fun (and there was a much greater chance of the officers having an easy life…) to send a champion from each side, let them fight to the death and then declare the winner accordingly. Makes sense, right? Especially when your champion is an odds-on sure-fire stone-cold no-brainer dead-cert winner!
       So on the first morning, Big G steps up and starts bellowing to the army camped on the other hill, across the valley. ‘Choose a man and let him come down and fight me. If he wins, we will become your subjects; if I win, you will serve us!’ His voice echoed slightly, but answer came there none. ‘I defy the armies of the Israelites! Send out a man, and I will kill him!’
        It was pretty terrifying, and I can understand why they didn’t respond straightaway. The stakes were too high to send out a loser, but there was clearly a problem in getting a volunteer who stood a chance.
        Big G turned on his heel and came back into the camp, letting someone of less importance keep watch in case an Israelite Champion (the very phrase seems to be an oxymoron) should happen to be volunteered.
        All day we stood there, letting the sun glint menacingly off our metalwork, but no-one stepped up. Towards the end of the afternoon, Big G went out again and repeated his challenge. ‘Let your champion fight me, and let the peoples of the winner rule over the peoples of the vanquished!’ or something similar. But the Israelites remained quiet and not a little shy.
         The next morning, Big G went out to make another challenge. No-one came forward from the ranks of the Israelites.
        That evening, he tried again, and there was a continued distinct lack of action.
       The following day, he had further attempts in the morning and in the evening, to no avail.
       On the fourth day there was no response, and the same was true of the fifth and sixth days.
       On the seventh day we were ready for the Israelites to send out their champion, as we had heard enough about their religion to know that they thought seven was a magic number or something. But they didn’t.
       So after a whole week of nothing, we were openly laughing at the Israelites. True, there had been a bit of activity, but we reckoned it was mostly the arrival and departure of supplies, not the intensive training of a fighting man.
      By the end of ten days or so, I was getting a bit bored. The Valley of Elah isn’t what I’d call a holiday resort, and it’s always more comfortable to be in the barracks than camping on some faraway hilltop, waiting for a fight that may never happen. There were plenty of big old oak trees (from which the valley gets its name, actually) that gave shade, which was nice. We were frustrated at the lack of action, and wondered why we had trained so diligently.
       Another fortnight went by, with Big G restating his challenge each morning and evening, but still there were no takers from the Israelites. Our ballista operators grew weary with the waiting, and decided to restart their training routines, keeping their technique honed to perfection.

       By the time a month had passed, the Philistine Siege Engineers crews had created a challenge of their own, and called it Mister Ballista ‘cross the Vista.
       First, they lined up their siege engines on one side of a nearby deep ravine. On the word of command, they raced to set up a post on this side, sling a line across and get a man onto the other side. Then he raised up another post and strung the line between the two so more men can get across to the other side. Meanwhile, the entire ballista, has been dismantled, and then is transported in stages, using block and tackle, lots of effort and a breeches buoy. Once the bits of weapon are all across, the PSE reassembled it. The first team to get all their men across and fire their ballista is the winner.
       It’s brilliant fun to watch, and the eight teams of PSE were enjoying the competitiveness. The rest of us were gambling on the outcome, but as two of the crews are so much better than the others, it’s usually just a case of which of them will have the edge.
       Meanwhile, we were late into the sixth week of waiting, waiting, waiting for nothing to happen.
       Once again, as he had done so many times before, Big G stood up and addressed the Israelites. This was the eighty-first time. That’s not a significant number in anyone’s religion, unless there’s something called Octogintamonoism. And I don’t think Nonosquarology is an essential tenet of any faith...
        Anyway, Goliath of Gath shouted something wearily about ‘Is there anybody there?’ and came straight back to enjoy today’s PSE contests.
       But today (you won’t believe this) someone came forward from the ranks of the Israelites. The front row slowly parted, and from the middle of the crowd came a young lad – yes, a young lad!
      Those of us who were watching (not very many, it has to be admitted) fell about at the sight of this puny kid with dark skin, a flimsy tunic, a staff in one hand, a limp bit of leather in the other – no beard, no muscles, no sword, no helmet, no shield, no armour, no battle-cry – no war-like qualities at all.
       One of our soldiers called out to Big G. ‘It looks like someone has finally responded to your challenge. Cut him down, Goliath of Gath, and then we can all go home, taking these slaves with us.’
     There was laughter, jeering and undisguised scorn.
     Big G went forward again, his armour glinting in the morning sunshine, and his sword in hand. His shield bearer went ahead of him, and they approached the lad. Big G laughed and spat on the ground.
     ‘Am I a dog?’ he cried. ‘Why do you come at me with a stick? Shall I fetch it for you?’ He spat again, and cursed the lad. ‘What the Dagon’s-den do you think you can do to me? Stand still, and I’ll make wolf breakfast and vulture lunch out of you!’
      The ladboy, who was braver than he looked, stood his ground and gave his answer. His voice was high-pitched and thin, like that of a worried child, but his words were those of a confident man. ‘You may come against me with sword and javelin and a shield, but I stand before you in the name of the Lord God Almighty, the God of the armies of Israel, whom you have defied. Today I will strike you down. Today I shall cut off your head. Today the vultures and the wolves shall feast on the carcasses of your army and the world will know that there is a God in Israel. It is not by sword or spear that the Lord saves. The battle is the Lord’s and he will give you into our hands.’
       It was quite a speech, and Goliath only stopped laughing long enough to grab his shield, take a proper grip on his spear and stand ready for any attack the boy might try to launch.
      The lad ran forward, and got something out of his shoulder bag. He fiddled with the bit of leather briefly and began to swing it around, above his head.
       Suddenly, something flew through the air with great speed and hit Big G before he could bat it away (I told you he wasn’t much cop at that, didn’t I?) The missile struck him on the forehead (no faceguard on his helmet, you see, didn’t I say…?) and sank into his head.
       Rather abruptly Big G stopped laughing, stopped waving his spear, stopped holding his shield, and stopped standing up. He fell backwards onto the ground. He lay very still.
       Now, I know about fighting and about weak spots and the key vulnerable places on the human body, and to be honest, I didn’t think that the forehead was particularly high up the list – especially when the weapon of choice was a smooth stone, taken from a brook, flung from a distance.
       By the time it arrived, surely the major part of its energy would have been spent on travelling, and its impact would be fairly inconsequential? If a sharp stone hits a man in the eye, I guess a lucky shot might blind him, but even then it probably wouldn’t penetrate the eye socket and enter his brain, would it? And this was a smooth stone.
       Okay, it just might cut the skin on someone’s forehead, but that’s all. Yet this pebble sank deep into Big G’s skull, as if it was not only something with a sharp edge, but something that was moving very rapidly indeed. Goliath was dead before he fell. There must have been, I think, some mysterious additional force that was not only guiding the shot, but also adding extra impetus to it…
       As Big G hit the ground, the massed ranks of both armies fell silent. We were appalled that our champ was so easily struck down; the Israelites were obviously surprised, and were probably about to cheer and celebrate that they’d somehow, mysteriously, unexpectedly won.
       Anyway, the lad rushed toward Big G’s motionless form, and, using both hands, pulled Goliath’s mighty sword from its scabbard. Then he turned, and with a fierce blow, cut off his head! Actually, it took three great hacks – the heavy sword was sharp, but Goliath’s neck was a particularly tough piece of meat with a collection of large bones inside.
       It was standard practice in those days, in those parts, for a victor to stand up, holding the head of the vanquished by the hair, letting the blood drip down. Grisly, yes, but in its way, glorious! But I can’t say if the lad (whose name, we later learned, was David) did this, as we had already turned around and were running as though our lives depended on it, since they did.
       So much for the ‘…and we will become your slaves’ part of the contract! We never had any intention of honouring that offer. We didn’t really ever consider the possibility that we would have to face that outcome.
       The army of the Israelites cheer became a roar and then they surged down the valley towards us.
       Luckily for me, no-one pointed out that I was now the next in line to be declared Champion and that I should stand and fight or anything silly like that. All of a sudden, I didn’t want to hold that exulted position… I wasn’t sure I wanted to be one of the Bronze Helmets anymore. I was glad I was good at sprinting. I threw my bronze helmet into the undergrowth, since there was a serious danger of it slowing me down or obscuring my view as I tried to get away.
       Many of our men were killed as we retreated back to our homes along the Shaaraim road, in Ekron and in Gath itself. Vultures and wolves gathered for a feast, as predicted.
      There could be no doubt that this boy’s God was mighty, as David defeated the mighty Philistine army with just one small stone, a sling, some brass neck (no brass helmet!), good aiming, and a very bold prophecy, backed up by an impressively powerful display of superiority.
      We won’t be so cheeky next time.

Didn’t meet David                           1 Samuel 17:1-52

A Philistine soldier observing Goliath’s defeat

• Was Goliath of Gath a national hero? Or was he a wicked victim? Or an arrogant fool?

• What really defeated Big G? A pebble? A shepherd boy? His attitude? His helmet? An inability to swat? Something else?

• What can we learn about the dangers of cheekiness?

Big Cats' Big Breakfast

They’ll even consume warthogs, on a bad day. Or wild dogs, zebra, giraffes, baby elephants. I’ve never really seen one eat a baby elephant (truth be told, I’ve no idea what a baby elephant is) but I’ve heard stories. But lions prefer big lumps of wildebeest.
     Oh yes. When truly, madly, deeply hungry, a grown adult lion can get through two-thirds of a talent of raw meat (about 53 minas). Now, that’s way beyond your standard peckish. Average comes in at a mere 13.5 minas. [53 minas = about 60lbs 27kg; 13.5 minas = 15lbs 7kg]

     But it has to said that in the wild, lions tend to let the females do the actual hunting – the finding, the getting downwind, the stalking, the crouching, the selecting of the weak or lame, the running, jumping, biting, crunching, and strangling. Then they’ll wander over and take their birthright – the lion’s share.

     Anyway, that’s the job we’ve got at the moment – to be the hunter/killers for the lions. They stay in their den, which has been constructed under the courtyard in the royal palace.

     Visitors can look down through the bars (they could even stand on the bars if they wish) and see the lions prowling and preening. They’re far enough down to be well out of reach, but they do growl a bit when people drop sticks or coins between the bars.

     What the visitors don’t see is that there’s another entrance to the den, which is how we get the lions in there in the first place, and how we fetch them out when we do the weekly cleaning and such like. That doorway is in the side of the den at the base, and we have to go through a labyrinth of tunnels to get there.

     That’s not the safest bit of this job, by a long chalk, but I can’t moan really, as the rest is a bit of a doddle – sorting out the daily feeding, chucking in the meat and leaving them to it.

     Things got a bit complicated the other week, apparently. I was on holiday myself, so I can only relate what I was told when I got back. It was from a source I’ve always found to be reliable, though.

     So, see what you make of it.

King Darius got stitched up, it seems. One of the top administrative bigwigs in the country was about to be appointed to the top job, overseeing everything, and his colleagues got jealous, and conspired to get him into seriously fatal trouble. Political intrigue or what?

     These other chaps (three scheming Satraps – you might call them government ministers or chiefs or provincial governors) looked carefully into the way that Cabinet Minister Belteshazzar (his official title) was running things, but all they could find was that he was clean, honest, hardworking, full of integrity, trustworthy and paid attention to detail. He was punctual, too.

     So they decided that the only chance they had to rubbish him was to criticise his commitment to his foreign religion; especially his regular times of prayer. Everyone had noticed that he’d not been conforming to the standard pattern round these parts, and that’s never a smart move. They made a devious, nasty plan, and the Satrap of the Southern Shires acted as spokesman for them

     ‘O King, live for ever!’ he said, when they were in the Royal Presence.  ‘We feel there should be more honour given to you by the people of this land. We suggest that a decree be declared. How about a Month of Prayer, when everyone has to bow down and worship you and you alone, for thirty days? What do you think?’

     ‘I like,’ said the King. ‘So, everyone includes praying to me when they pray, several times a day? That sounds most excellent!’

     ‘O King, your humility knows no bounds. Our plan, however, is to command that no-one may pray to any other god but you during this time. They must pray, and must pray only to you.’

     ‘Oh,’ said the King, tapping the tips of his fingers together, licking his lips and smiling with his eyes, ‘now that would be very special indeed.’

     ‘My Lord, we were also talking about decreeing a punishment for any who disobey the Law.’

     ‘That would be stimulating. Motivating. You’re talking about the Medes…?’

     ‘…Yes, my lord!…’

     ‘…and Persians, yes, oh yes! That would be watertight! Oh, now you have excelled yourselves! I will truly be God of the Month, and everyone will have to worship me…’ He was clearly delighted. ‘Do you have any suggestions for what the punishment might be? Fingernail removal, or eyes gouged out?’ He was warming to the theme. ‘Or we could turn his house into a dunghill, like my father threatened when he was charmed by those three (or was it four?) asbestos Israelites?’

     ‘Yes, nice idea, O King (LFE).’

     ‘Alrighty then, let’s make it happen!’ He was evidently in the decree-declaring mood, and all his officials and scribes had to blur into action. The decree was quickly drawn up on the official papyrus, and as soon as the ink was dry, it was brought with much fanfare and ceremony to the King to sign and seal, to make it law. But as he was waiting for the wax to warm, King Darius snapped his fingers.

     ‘I’ve just thought of an even more dastardly punishment.’

     ‘What’s that, O King (live for ever)?’asked the Satrap of the Southern Shires, nervously, disliking such late changes.

     ‘Well, you know that pit of lions in the courtyard?’

     ‘Uh-huh?’

     ‘Well, we could make sure the lions are really hungry and use them as the threat! We can stop feeding them for – say for the whole month, and that should do the trick.’

     ‘I don’t get it,’ the Satrap of the Eastern Extremes said, quietly.

     The King called in his scribe, and the decree was amended. ‘Any offenders shall be thrown into the pit of lions,’ King Darius dictated.

     ‘Pit? Are you sure, O King (LFE)?’ the Satrap of the Central Counties ventured. ‘I was always taught that a collection of lions was called a pride. You know: flock of sheep, shoal of fish, flange of baboons, pride of lions…’ Discretely, he didn’t mention a Subterfuge of Satraps.

     ‘That’s true,’ acknowledged the King. ‘But I don’t think a random collection of half a dozen lions with no females or young really constitutes a pride, as such…’

     ‘O King (LFE), you are wise beyond all knowing.’ He spoke to the scribe. ‘Put pit, okay?’

     But the King shook his head. ‘On second thoughts, I suggest we call it the Den of Lions. Yes, that has a poetic ring to it. Rock badgers live in a set, rabbits in a burrow, and behemoths in… well, wherever behemoths dwell, but lions live in a den. This is very good.’

     The decree was thus amended, sealed, signed and became law that very afternoon, and the Town Criers set off, armed with bells, tricorn hats, scrolls and bellows to make their announcements throughout the country.

Cabinet Minister Belteshazzar heard news of the royal proclamation, and his heart sank slightly at the foolishness of the King’s vanity. But he wasn’t about to change his good habit, or to pray to any human being, not even a King. Belteshazzar knew that praying to the One True God was the right thing to do. God alone was the source of help and comfort and power, so it was truly pointless, as well as an insult, to pray to a mere man.

     So when the time came for his daily prayer routine, he did the same as he had always done. He went up to his room, opened the windows that faced Jerusalem – where the Temple to this god was situated, so I hear – knelt down in front of them and prayed to what he claimed was the One True God. When he finished, he closed the windows, went downstairs, used the loo and washed his hands. Then he went back to his work, administering and making important decisions of state.
    Later the same day, it was time to pray again. So he followed his routine and went upstairs, opened the windows, knelt down and prayed to the One True God. 

    Once he’d finished, he closed the windows and went downstairs to help prepare his evening meal (vegetable stew with dumplings followed by poached plums and cream of the asses’ milk). He ate his meal, cleared up, sat for a while in the cool evening breeze and went upstairs to bed, resting before another day’s work, running the country.

     The following morning, he got up and went directly to the windows, opened them, knelt down and prayed to his God, giving thanks and praise. When he was finished, he closed the windows and went to work. At lunchtime, he went again to his room and followed his routine. It was a good habit, not a religious duty.

     But this time, the Subterfuge of Satraps was hiding in the street. They had heard that CMB was breaking the new law about praying only to the King, and that he was doing it somewhat publicly and obviously. They considered he ought to be setting an example, since he was one of the senior bods.

     Anyway, as soon as CMB began to pray, he addressed the One True God, and it was obvious that he was breaking the new law. The satraps exchanged glances.

     The Satrap of the Southern Shires rubbed his hands. ‘Not long now before we are rid of this foreigner, stealing our job,’ he said, unjustifiably.

     The Subterfuge rushed off and presented themselves to the King, who was absent-mindedly peeling a peach. In the past, he would make a slave slice up his fruit for him, but he missed the enjoyable tactile experience, and he loved licking the juice off his fingers afterwards as well, so he’d decided to do this himself.

     ‘O King Live For Ever,’ the Satrap of the Southern Shires began. ‘Now, you remember your decree – the one which states that if anyone in our country prays to any god or man except you during this month, they would be thrown in the pit of lions?’

     The King shook his head. ‘I know of no such decree.’

     The Satraps looked at each other. The Satrap of the Southern Shires frowned, but the Satrap of the Central Counties corrected his colleague. ‘He means den of lions, O King (LFE).’

     The King smiled at this minor victory. ‘Ah, now you’re talking. Anyone caught praying to anyone but me shall be fed to the lions in their den. Yes, this is the new law.’

     ‘And it’s according to the Medes and Persians, is it not?’

     ‘Yes, yes, that’s right.’

     ‘Which means, O King (LFE), that not even you can repeal the law or change the details of it, doesn‘t it?’

     ‘That is, I believe, the whole point of the laws of the Medes and Persians.’ He continued to slice his peach.

     ‘And you definitely issued that decree, didn’t you?’

     ‘Of that there is no doubt. Why do you ask?’

     ‘Well, we know of someone who is publicly, blatantly and regularly breaking this law.’

     ‘Do you? Well, the decree is clear; you know what to do. It’s dinner-time for Leo, it would seem. I’m surprised you haven’t done it already.’

     ‘O King, Live For Ever! We felt we should tell you who it was that his been blatantly and regularly breaking this law…’

     ‘…And publicly,’ the Satrap of the Eastern Extremes interrupted.

     ‘Blatantly?’

     ‘Oh yes.’ The Satrap of the Southern Shires confirmed his colleague’s interjection.

     ‘And publicly?’

     ‘Blatantly and publicly, my lord. Quite shameless.’

     ‘Who is it, then?’ asked the King irritably.

     ‘It is Cabinet Minister Belteshazzar.’ At the sound of this name, the King accidentally stabbed his thumb with the sharp knife. He sucked the wound as the satrap continued. ‘O King, Live For Ever, Belteshazzar is praying to what he calls the One True God three times each day, kneeling without shame right by his open window – oh yes, in public and blatant disregard for your law.’

     ‘And regular,’ added the Satrap of the Central Counties.

     The King was horrified to hear this, as CMB was one of his most faithful, loyal, dependable, honest men. He was full of integrity and trustworthiness. And he’d never been late for a meeting, either.

     ‘This is awful,’ the King said, quietly.

     He put down the knife, suddenly not really wanting to eat peach slices. He called for his best lawyers to attend immediately and had a conference with them. ‘Please look at the law books and try to find a loophole in the law of the Medes and Persians. I want to change the punishment for the crime in the latest edict.’

     The senior lawyer drew in his breath noisily. ‘O King, Live For Ever, but edicts established under the Laws of the Medes and Persians are designed to be unbreakable, you know.’

     ‘Yes, I know,’ the King said, patiently trying to explain. ‘That’s why I’ve called you in to see if it’s really as unbreakable as we always thought. Please look carefully, and find a loophole. You have until sundown.’ He swept majestically (as befits a royal personage) out of the chamber, hoping that he had expressed his will and given the distinct impression that the servants should treat it as a command.

     Truth to tell, he was filled more with sadness and regret than with rage.

     He returned as amber dusk filled the chamber. The lawyers were still feverishly pouring over their scrolls and books (especially one entitled M&P for Dummies) and making extensive notes.

     ‘Well?’

     ‘O King, Live For Ever! We have diligently studied our law books, but we, er, are unable…’

     ‘What?’

      ‘O King, Live For Ever, but know this: one of your subjects will most certainly not live forever, or even beyond the end of the day. The laws of the Medes and Persians are the sorts of law that may not be broken or changed or disobeyed. I am afraid to say it, but even the King who declares the law is duty bound to obey it, and to follow the decree by the letter. Cabinet Minister Belteshazzar must be seen to be subject to the decree. Sorry.’

     ‘This is dreadful!’ The King was genuinely distressed at the thought that he was going to have to execute one of his best men; indeed, the man he had hoped to promote to the top job.

     He chased the lawyers out of the chamber.

     A few minutes later, the Subterfuge of Satraps arrived.

     ‘O King, Live For Ever. That law must be obeyed…’

     ‘Yes! yes! YES, I know.’ The King deeply regretted having made the decree, but he knew he had to be held accountable to it. ‘Make it happen.’

     The Satraps tried not to look pleased as they retreated from the chamber. They issued their orders quickly.

     ‘Fetch Cabinet Minister Belteshazzar, and bring him here, right now,’ ordered the Satrap of the Southern Shires.

     ‘Bring a heavy stone, ribbon, wax and the King’s ring,’ commanded the Satrap of the Eastern Extremes.

     ‘Arrange for one of the keepers of the lions to open the top entrance to the den,’ instructed the Satrap of the Central Counties, gleefully rubbing his hands together. ‘Those big cats eat tonight!’

     The servants blurred into action, and before long, CMB, stripped down to a ragged loincloth, stood in the royal courtyard, with the King and the Subterfuge in attendance; the other preparations had been made. The doorway into the den at floor level was sealed already, and the top entrance would also be secured as soon as CMB was Leolunch.

     The prisoner stood with his back to the wide-open top of the lions’ den as the sound of loud, hungry roaring filled the air.

     At this moment, the King appeared. ‘Wait,’ he said. He turned to CMB, and shook his head. ‘You have broken the edict, so you must be thrown into the pit of lions.’

     The Satrap of the Central Counties opened his mouth to correct the King, but decided against it.

     The King continued ‘May this God, whom you serve continually (blatantly, regularly and publicly) be with you and rescue you!’ He turned to the jailer. ‘I suppose you had better do your duty.’

     A rope was tied around CMB’s waist, and he was pushed over the edge. Three men lowered him; there were roars from below.

     The bars were replaced with a clang, and locked down, and the large stone placed on top, to prevent any funny business. And just to make sure, the ribbon was laid over the stone, and hot wax was poured on each end of the ribbon, to give a tell-tale sign of any tampering. When one of the servants turned to use the royal signet ring to impress the seals, the King offered him an even more important ring to use.

     ‘My father’s seal.’

     The servant completed the job, returning the ring to the King.

     The Satraps looked at each other, trying not to smile. ‘Nebuchadnezzar’s ring, eh? He means business.’

     There was no longer any noise from below.

As Cabinet Minister Belteshazzar was lowered into the den, everyone (including CMB, obviously) could hear the lions roaring and pawing towards the opening above them, eager to get at this exciting, tasty dinner arriving from on high. As he grew closer and closer to uncontrollable, unstoppable, violent rending, CMB’s prayer life got even better than it had been before.

     He had no idea why God had rescued him through so much trouble already, just to become a meal to satisfy the vanity of the King, the deviousness of the Satraps and the slavering, fierce hunger of the lions in their den.

     The bored, caged, undernourished, wild beasts roared and growled and roared again. But as CMB came within reach of their paws, they became strangely placid, and by the time he reached the floor of the pit, the lions were simply padding around, looking at CMB, sometimes muzzling up to him, but not harming him at all. He could feel their warm breath on the back of his neck, and matted mane fur rubbing against his skin, and could see the clean bones left from their previous snack, three weeks before.

     They were definitely hungry – he could tell from the rumbling of their tummies and the drool pouring over their lips and the way they enjoyed the scent of Carpaccio of Government Official (a raw meat dish, also known as King’s Choice Underdone, Blue Prophet, or Nervous Man of God Tartare).

     But they left him alone. Very strange.

     CMB settled down for the longest night of his dangerously exciting life. He lay on the smelly, damp straw at one end of the den, and wondered if the morning would ever come. He prayed a lot, which is understandable. He prayed with his eyes open, which is even more understandable.

Meanwhile, the King lay on his bed, completely unable to sleep. He was furious: angry with himself for his vanity; wildly cross with the Satraps for their devious trickery; and absolutely livid that his friend and favourite Cabinet Minister had gone to certain death with such serenity and confidence.

     At the very first sight of light, he wrapped himself in a robe and went out to the courtyard. Could there be even a the faintest hope that maybe this so-called One True God, much honoured by Cabinet Minister Belteshazzar, had spared him, somehow? The King directed a servant to break the seal, remove the ribbon, roll away the stone and unlock the bars. His majesty tentatively peered into the dark den below.

     ‘Cabinet Minister Belteshazzar! Are you there? Has your God saved you?’ he called softly, not daring to…

     ‘Indeed I am, O King! Live For Ever!’ came the voice of CMB. ‘My God accompanied me into the den, and shut the mouths of the lions, and they have not harmed me at all. I was found innocent in God’s sight, and I haven’t done any harm to you, either, as it happens.’

     The King was delighted. ‘Oh, oh! Fetch a ladder, quickly!’ he shouted to a servant, and a ladder was duly fetched. CMB clambered out of the den and the King examined him for toothmarks. But there were none; not even drool stains on his clothing.

     ‘Right!’ The King ordered his servants. ‘Give this man some breakfast – eggs, cheese, milk – and fetch a robe…’

     ‘O King (LFE), if it pleases you, I would greatly prefer to go home. I would like to have a nap as I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night. But first, I have a prayer appointment with the One True God.’

     ‘You’re a bold fellow! Alrighty then!’ laughed the King as he let CMB leave. He turned to his hard-pressed servants once again.

     ‘Now, fetch me those Satraps and their families, and bring them here immediately. I have never known such vile, deceptive scheming wickedness! They tricked me and tried to get rid of this quality character who is a most excellent worker. And they used the Law against me, when I have supreme dominion over this land. Hurry! Quickly. Move!’

     The Subterfuge of Satraps were unceremoniously dragged from their beds, along with their wives and children, and brought to the courtyard.

     The King was a ruthless man, and he knew how to deal with wicked, scheming conspirators. He waved his hand, and all the Satraps and their families were thrown into the lion’s den.

     The lions demonstrated that they were indeed most decidedly hungry, wild and fearsome. The bones of the evildoers were crushed in powerful jaws before any of the Satraps, their wives or their children reached the floor of the den. The lions feasted until they were gorged.

Now, I can’t say that half-awake Satrap tastes better to a lion than wildebeest, but these big cats were more than satisfied with their early morning slap-up feed. The King decreed that everyone in the Kingdom must fear and revere the God of Cabinet Minister Belteshazzar (known by his local name of Daniel).

     And he promoted CMB, giving him the new title Prime Minister Daniel, Lord Over All the Provinces (Especially the Southern Shires, the Eastern Extremes and the Central Counties).

     In celebration, they had a goblet or two of (aptly named) London Pride ale and shared a confection – made from caramel filled wafer and crisp cereal, covered in milk chocolate (bite it, crunch it, chew it) – every day between 23rd July and 22nd August inclusive, which no-one could possibly have predicted, even with the most diligent observation of the hour of birth [Greek hora hour; skopos watch].

Didn’t meet Daniel     Daniel 6:1-28; see also 3:26-30

King Darius’ lion keeper can’t quite believe what he saw

• What motivated CMB (Daniel) tobreak the anti-prayer law? Why did he pray so loudly, so often, so openly?
• Do your praying habits match the diligence of Daniel? In what ways does he express his dependece on God?
• What do you suppose Daniel thought would happen to him when he broke the law? Was he certain he'd be saved? And in what way did God show he was with Daniel?