The Blackberry Walk

Some five or so years ago, my mother set out to buy a new car. Her old car was getting on in its years - a black Skoda Fabia it was - and despite it's worn look and feel, it'd been going since the mid-noughties when it was bought second-hand. A trooper, it'd taken us far and wide: on family holidays down to Cornwall; across the channel to Normandy; and all the way to Amsterdam. There are many pictures of the family in the old black Skoda, including one family-famous pic of my brother and I along with the next-door neighbours all crammed into the boot of the Skoda; when we were younger, of course. But all old cars come to an end. Houses remain in place for another family to populate and live in, however odd it may feel, but cars are sent to the killing fields: the scrapheap. My mother went to witness her car, the old veritable Skoda being scrapped, and filmed it. "BreadIsDead (my name here is redacted, but probably easily findable), do you want to watch the video of my old car being scrapped?", she said with unnerving enthusiasm. I was horrified at the suggestion. I couldn't stand to see the trustworthy old steed that had ridden my family around since childhood be crushed by some demonic arm. Imagine going to the vet and taking a video of your horse being put down, and wanting to spread it to kith and kin with such excitement - you'd be taken for a lunatic! Now, please understand this is not an attack on my mother. I don't mean to denounce her for such grave cruelty to the black Skoda, since I feel it's a sentiment - or lack thereof - common to many. For it is truly a question of sentiment, and what one feels sentiment for. The vegan has a sincere grave sentiment for the plight of the cow or sheep, but very little for the cockroach or rat which may wish to make their house theirs also. Whilst the poacher in Africa has very little sentiment for the allegedly very man-like Elephants, thought to possess wisdom. Sentiment is a kind of sliding scale, or rather some sort of two-dimension heat map like a political compass, detailing for what an individual feels sentiment towards. For I feel sentiment towards objects more strongly than most, but less than most for animals; although most feel the other way around. My old walking boots for instance; I can't bring myself to throw them away. The soles are worn through to the point that both have holds, making every small puddle a hazard; both have holes throughout their leather, with wounds and scars across the surfaces; and the left boot has the most enormous hole, rendering the back third of the sole completely detached from the rest. I walk quite a long distance to and from work, and I calculated that while I've been working there, I have so far walked over 750 miles, not withstanding other walks those boots have taken me. They have taken me far; and I can't stand to see the trustworthy old steeds (unyoked, thankfully) that have aided my person around for years to be sent to the dustbin. So far they've waited en garde in the hallway, awaiting an honourable discharge from service. Many love dogs for their service and obedience; and granted, it is a very endearing trait in dogs. But objects have absolute obedience. Looking around me, my coffee mug will continue to hold coffee for me to drink until its very body deteriorates and it can hold no more. However grimy I may leave it, it will continue to hold coffee for me and not rebel and let it leak out from a kind of spite or malice. And its well-being is completely within my care, for if it were to fall and smash, that would be white, powdery porcelain blood on my hands. The books on the bookshelf next to where I write are mostly old and second-hand; looking at the inside cover of my copy of Chesterton's 'Ballad of the White Horse', I can see it originally belonged to Lilian, and was gifted to her by her aunties on the Christmas of 1927; and later in this book's life, it belonged to a Trevor E Bowers whose ownership, judging by the date of the sticker to which the name is attached, dates to around 1984. However many other owners this book may have had, it has served their masters well. The book has since aged old, the pages mottled with liver spots, the binding impregnated with that rosy smell of decay common to the elderly; it is old, yet it still serves, loyally reciting Chesterton's poem to whoever turns its pages. I may well sound like a madman. And many would probably agree. But I see objects as being capable of an absolute agape, for they follow the natural law perfectly. They cannot be disobedient, they cannot whine when a task is requested of them, and they cannot sin through pride and envy. They are loyal servants who will do whatever is commanded. What a fairytale world we would live in if the coffee mugs unionised and staged a revolt! Animals follow natural law also, but aren't destined to be true servants in the way objects are. Animals generally have extra callings than to simply serve man, such as the impulse of self-preservation and self-propagation. Mankind, in turn, has a calling to serve God. As the tin soldier is to man, man is to God, as Lewis argues in Mere Christianity. Being fallen creatures, we cannot serve with the loyalty that objects serve us; and nor can we love our objects as much as God loves us. But I reckon we can at least try to. We can try and have sentiment for the tools which make our lives feasible. We can try to love our old worn boots or our old car. And we can try and love many a mug as if it were our favourite mug, however ugly a mug it may be. Destruction is necessary - the forest which burns down fertilises the soil for new life - but the thrill of destruction, the intoxication of Kali, is unsightly. I argue not for a protracted funeral service for every car scrapped, but merely for the solemnity and respect the Skoda was due. It worked hard for our benefit over its life of service. And it's just not right to let its death be in mocked and ridiculed.