It would not be doing justice to the memory of dear Great Aunt Dorothea to leave you with the notion that she was naught but an embroidress, far from it.
In her younger days - as oft was the way with single women of indeterminate fortune then - GAD was employed as a nanny to the children of the too-rich-to-nurture classes. Not content though to work in this country, GAD secured herself a post in pre-revolutionary Russia where, it is rumoured, she mixed in the most exalted circles - a British nanny being a highly-prized catch among the nobility.
From her diaries one can catch a sense of the mood of the time - constancy to a known way of life, yet ever present the fear that it would all (as it did) end in a trice. Pure Chekhov was GAD.
My especial favourite moment from her record of her time there was her description of the necessary precautions against inviolation of chastity when traveling on the railways. Russian gentlemen - but above all Russian cavalry officers - could be relied upon to assail the gentile foreign maid at every inopportune moment. That being so, whenever the train entered a tunnel GAD would take one of her hat-pins and place it in her mouth point forward, so that should any dastardly Ruskie dare attempt to kiss her in the dark of the tunnel the cad would be rewarded for his affrontery with a sharp spike to the lips!
When finally GAD came home she brought with her several items of remembrance. There was one - a small doll of little beauty - that was her favourite. Her telling of how she came about it is stunning and compelling in its simplicity, yet awesome in its historical implications. According to GAD her final posting was as nanny to the doomed Romanovs, and when it was plain that their time was at an end and GAD must fly the country or die, little Anastasia gave GAD this doll as a keepsake and a thank you for all the love she had given to the poor, unhappy child.
Provenance is impossible to prove, but if GAD said it was Anastasia's doll then so it was and so it to this day is.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Monday, October 30, 2006
Near My God To Thee...
...Great Aunt Dorothea's embroidery was legendary around these parts: delicate, intricate and evidence of many happy hours spent in blameless needlework. The one surviving piece we have in the house is an idyllic garden scene, a glorious medley of colours and a joy to behold. But for the accompanying legend, which has always troubled me as, try as I might, I cannot read it without dissenting from its import or wondering if GAD had lost it in her dotage.
'Nearer to thee my God in a garden than anywhere else on earth' - that's the slogan I struggle with. Our ancestral couple A 'n' E may have believed that to be the case - until their unfortunate encounter with the apple - but I have never felt the divine presence lift my spirits more outdoors than in.
Perhaps only people who never actually have to tend a garden have this roseate view of them. For those of us condemned to dig, scrape, plant, pluck, prune, manure, cut, trim, weed, muck out, clean, mow, dig some more, and all this in all weathers whatever else needs doing, a garden is more a constant reminder of unremitting toil than of heavenly ease.
Helen's family had the answer - employ a gardener. This of course is hardly an option on a stipend, though I could cite an example of just how cost-effective such a person and post can be. Years back it seems, there was a spate of burglaries in the road where H's parents lived, in fact theirs was the only house that wasn't broken into at some time. This seeming fluke of good fortune was not a random act however. Later the real reason emerged - I know not how - it was the presence of their gardener had deterred the local villains.
And how so forceful you might wonder? Old Albert - for such was he - it transpired had, in his younger more spritely and less socially aware days, been a driver for the Krays. A word from him to the young rogues committing these burglaries that should they come near 'his' house it was at severe risk to their longevity, was naturally completely effective in securing the premises from unwanted intrusion.
'Nearer to Wormwood Scrubs in a garden than anyone on earth would have imagined' - not a motto GAD would have readily sewed, but true for all that.
'Nearer to thee my God in a garden than anywhere else on earth' - that's the slogan I struggle with. Our ancestral couple A 'n' E may have believed that to be the case - until their unfortunate encounter with the apple - but I have never felt the divine presence lift my spirits more outdoors than in.
Perhaps only people who never actually have to tend a garden have this roseate view of them. For those of us condemned to dig, scrape, plant, pluck, prune, manure, cut, trim, weed, muck out, clean, mow, dig some more, and all this in all weathers whatever else needs doing, a garden is more a constant reminder of unremitting toil than of heavenly ease.
Helen's family had the answer - employ a gardener. This of course is hardly an option on a stipend, though I could cite an example of just how cost-effective such a person and post can be. Years back it seems, there was a spate of burglaries in the road where H's parents lived, in fact theirs was the only house that wasn't broken into at some time. This seeming fluke of good fortune was not a random act however. Later the real reason emerged - I know not how - it was the presence of their gardener had deterred the local villains.
And how so forceful you might wonder? Old Albert - for such was he - it transpired had, in his younger more spritely and less socially aware days, been a driver for the Krays. A word from him to the young rogues committing these burglaries that should they come near 'his' house it was at severe risk to their longevity, was naturally completely effective in securing the premises from unwanted intrusion.
'Nearer to Wormwood Scrubs in a garden than anyone on earth would have imagined' - not a motto GAD would have readily sewed, but true for all that.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
On Breaking The Fast...
Tolstoy, dear if sometimes deluded man, knew that one could never anticipate everything that would happen in the course of a battle; that the least little act of heroism - or cowardice - or moment of inspiration could decide the outcome and that an amalgam of such incidents most certainly would.
That though is not to say that there shouldn't be plans of campaign, far from it. As a wise general I had thought ahead and realised that the Archdeacon would be likely not to want to break his morning fast until after the early communion service. (Not wishing though to seem the miser host should his hunger outweigh his principles, I left a few tactical cupboards open in the kitchen so that he could help himself if desired.)
H, E and I meanwhile had smuggled a toaster upstairs, together with the vital coffee percolator, so that we could refresh the body in our customary manner without being detected as too unforgivably carnal by the FDH.
So far, so well planned. What, however, all had overlooked were the new and state-of-the-art smoke detectors installed by my somewhat risk-adverse predecessor. No sooner had we sat down in the attic to a couple of slices - with marmalade or jam according to preference - than the wretched fire sirens were tripped by the toaster fumes and a bedlam of unbearable noise shrieked through the entire house.
'DANGER, there is a FIRE. Evacuate the building IMMEDIATELY.' Not mine or anyone else's hysterical words, but an auto-voiced message repeatedly booming out from the central control panel in the hallway! We, knowing the alarm to be false, had little choice but to file down the stairs as if making an obedient and a safe exit. Poor Archdeacon though, not being in the know, bolted from his bedroom - wearing what E swears was a horsehair nightshirt - and flew past us out the front door onto the driveway, where he stood shivering with fright and cold.
Had poor H not overlooked a small fleck of marmalade on her beauteous lips, I believe the whole episode could have been swiftly resolved; the FDH reassured and all returned to indoor safety and warmth in a moment. The wretched man's eagle eyes - ever on the lookout for any and every falling-by-the-way - at once though fixed on this clue to the truth of the matter and, without a single word but with a withering stare, let us know how he felt about being dumped into the morning chill of a Wolds' autumn because we had been nabbing an unliturgical breakfast.
Oh dear. FDH 2 : Palladas family minus 3!
That though is not to say that there shouldn't be plans of campaign, far from it. As a wise general I had thought ahead and realised that the Archdeacon would be likely not to want to break his morning fast until after the early communion service. (Not wishing though to seem the miser host should his hunger outweigh his principles, I left a few tactical cupboards open in the kitchen so that he could help himself if desired.)
H, E and I meanwhile had smuggled a toaster upstairs, together with the vital coffee percolator, so that we could refresh the body in our customary manner without being detected as too unforgivably carnal by the FDH.
So far, so well planned. What, however, all had overlooked were the new and state-of-the-art smoke detectors installed by my somewhat risk-adverse predecessor. No sooner had we sat down in the attic to a couple of slices - with marmalade or jam according to preference - than the wretched fire sirens were tripped by the toaster fumes and a bedlam of unbearable noise shrieked through the entire house.
'DANGER, there is a FIRE. Evacuate the building IMMEDIATELY.' Not mine or anyone else's hysterical words, but an auto-voiced message repeatedly booming out from the central control panel in the hallway! We, knowing the alarm to be false, had little choice but to file down the stairs as if making an obedient and a safe exit. Poor Archdeacon though, not being in the know, bolted from his bedroom - wearing what E swears was a horsehair nightshirt - and flew past us out the front door onto the driveway, where he stood shivering with fright and cold.
Had poor H not overlooked a small fleck of marmalade on her beauteous lips, I believe the whole episode could have been swiftly resolved; the FDH reassured and all returned to indoor safety and warmth in a moment. The wretched man's eagle eyes - ever on the lookout for any and every falling-by-the-way - at once though fixed on this clue to the truth of the matter and, without a single word but with a withering stare, let us know how he felt about being dumped into the morning chill of a Wolds' autumn because we had been nabbing an unliturgical breakfast.
Oh dear. FDH 2 : Palladas family minus 3!
Saturday, October 28, 2006
On The First Day..
...E wrought havoc!
Not how Genesis should begin, but Day One of the Archdeacon's visit culminated in chaos not creation and largely thanks to - one suspects with due malice aforethought - darling E, who is now grounded for a month!
I should have realised something was up - if not rather right down - when she offered to play one of her DVDs to the Archdeacon following our deliberately frugal supper. Even that repast had not passed without incident, as FDH intoned that 'Fish on Friday is largely a papist custom' and not one he would wish to see much encouraged among good Xtian folk. 'Plain vegetables', he offered, would have been sufficient for his mild and minimal stomach.
Perhaps it was that very remark gave E her fatal clue, for the DVD she chose just - oh so unhappily - happened to be that one from the third series of dear Blackadder where the puritan relatives pitch up for supper and are served a raw, rude turnip before being caught up in the alternative entertainment of the night - a right royal piss up!
The Archdeacon had nearly declined the watching of television as being altogether too frivolous for his tastes and disposition, but clearly wanting to ingratiate himself with our 'darling child' (mad fool! - when was a teenager ever a child let alone a darling of that species?!) had agreed to be thus entertained before Compline.
Helen's initial hard stare at E seemed to me somewhat that of the cynic, though her then strangled yelp when she saw what E had chosen from our little library of shows did scare me as to what was to come - and not without reason. The trouble is, and was, Blackadder is so irresistibly, screamingly funny (well not to the FDH of course) and although we all knew we would regret hollering with our usual laughter we simply couldn't stop.
Throughout it all the Archdeacon sat in total stony silence. Not one peep of laughter, not a hint of a giggle, not even a 'Yes I know it's aimed at me but I can take it' smile. When it was done he simply - with some grace it must be owned - reached for his BoCP and began reciting Compline in a firm, no nonsense manner.
I think we all felt a bit like foolish children then, which soured the mood utterly. FDH - 1 : Palladas family - 0.
And so to bed - well the Archdeacon anyway. H has given him the small back bedroom with a good view and a firm mattress. We must hope he sleeps well and wakes in a mood of relaxed Xtian charity. I shall divert to the study for a large whisky just in case he doesn't! H spoke sharply to E about the potentially dire consequences of her reckless teasing then, of course, left it to me to administer condine punishment of the month's grounding, thus making me the father from hell naturally. Two whiskies I think are required at this point!
Not how Genesis should begin, but Day One of the Archdeacon's visit culminated in chaos not creation and largely thanks to - one suspects with due malice aforethought - darling E, who is now grounded for a month!
I should have realised something was up - if not rather right down - when she offered to play one of her DVDs to the Archdeacon following our deliberately frugal supper. Even that repast had not passed without incident, as FDH intoned that 'Fish on Friday is largely a papist custom' and not one he would wish to see much encouraged among good Xtian folk. 'Plain vegetables', he offered, would have been sufficient for his mild and minimal stomach.
Perhaps it was that very remark gave E her fatal clue, for the DVD she chose just - oh so unhappily - happened to be that one from the third series of dear Blackadder where the puritan relatives pitch up for supper and are served a raw, rude turnip before being caught up in the alternative entertainment of the night - a right royal piss up!
The Archdeacon had nearly declined the watching of television as being altogether too frivolous for his tastes and disposition, but clearly wanting to ingratiate himself with our 'darling child' (mad fool! - when was a teenager ever a child let alone a darling of that species?!) had agreed to be thus entertained before Compline.
Helen's initial hard stare at E seemed to me somewhat that of the cynic, though her then strangled yelp when she saw what E had chosen from our little library of shows did scare me as to what was to come - and not without reason. The trouble is, and was, Blackadder is so irresistibly, screamingly funny (well not to the FDH of course) and although we all knew we would regret hollering with our usual laughter we simply couldn't stop.
Throughout it all the Archdeacon sat in total stony silence. Not one peep of laughter, not a hint of a giggle, not even a 'Yes I know it's aimed at me but I can take it' smile. When it was done he simply - with some grace it must be owned - reached for his BoCP and began reciting Compline in a firm, no nonsense manner.
I think we all felt a bit like foolish children then, which soured the mood utterly. FDH - 1 : Palladas family - 0.
And so to bed - well the Archdeacon anyway. H has given him the small back bedroom with a good view and a firm mattress. We must hope he sleeps well and wakes in a mood of relaxed Xtian charity. I shall divert to the study for a large whisky just in case he doesn't! H spoke sharply to E about the potentially dire consequences of her reckless teasing then, of course, left it to me to administer condine punishment of the month's grounding, thus making me the father from hell naturally. Two whiskies I think are required at this point!
Thursday, October 26, 2006
My Kingdom is a Horse...
...You'll perhaps have noticed that neither H nor myself make much reference to our dear [precious and expensive] daughter Ericka. This is official policy as we both feel a certain hesitancy and reticence in bringing E too much into the mad world of cyberspace.
Nevertheless one could not reasonably present a full and balanced view from the Wolds if we did not at least acknowledge that our lives are utterly dominated by E's passion for horses. That we have become sucked into this wonderful if all-consuming world of Equus is entirely our faults of course. We took her for a riding lesson aged nine, as one does. Her first remark was that the stable yard reeked of horse pee - perceptive infant, though she'd be the last to acknowledge that the entire house is now redolent of that faint yet pungent air! - but once on a horse she has never looked back or down. (Fallen down a fair few times of course, and the danger of her chosen line is never far from our thoughts. I have tried proposing extreme knitting as a cheaper, safer alternative hobby only to be met of course with withering glances and scornful silences.)
My own knowledge of horses is severely limited: the front end bites, the rear end kicks and - as I now know - all the bits in between cost me an arm, a leg, my entire pension pot and every coin I earn then some. E actually prefers my ignorance as I am, unlike other parents at the inevitable weekly shows, precluded from offering reams of arcane and always spurned advice. I can just about muster a 'leg on' comment - when in doubt always urge a rider to keep their leg on; not much idea what it actually means but it never fails to hit the mark - or speak in general terms about position and balance.
This, and my ability to drive a horse box (pastor and truck driver it says on my CV now) is all that is required of me. Oh, and my ever ready cheque book of course - livery fees, feed and endless supplements, saddles and tack for every occasion, vet and farrier bills, rugs enough to keep a Napoleonic army warm stuck in a Russian winter, entry fees for shows, diesel by the oil field [for truck not horse of course!] etc., etc., etc.
She has her own horse - an Irish Sports mare all of 16.2, with a good disposition thank the Lord though also a tendency to be utterly 'mareish' on occasions. (The world of horse is irredeemably sexist!) When in a strop, rearing and plunging at every passing dandelion I call her 'Norma Bates', though mostly we are on good terms and we spend many a quality moment together me chatting to her over the stable door. (I am even becoming known locally as 'the horse chatterer', as I always like to have a little word with each of the nags in the yard when we visit daily.)
Two national and one regional final in her first year - with a cherished rosette on each occasion - is the accomplishment to date. Not bad for a starter. The horse is big and E is not, but together they seem to work well enough. An international rider and instructor tried the horse the other day and pronounced that she had never encountered so strong-willed a mare and that anyone who rode her deserved a medal.
That pleased as scared me in equal measure. Extreme knitting really would be so much fun!
I wonder if the Archdeacon rides. Offer him a little canter on Ms Bates? Watch him bolt off into Featherdown Woods never to return? Hmmm! See how conniving I have become!
Nevertheless one could not reasonably present a full and balanced view from the Wolds if we did not at least acknowledge that our lives are utterly dominated by E's passion for horses. That we have become sucked into this wonderful if all-consuming world of Equus is entirely our faults of course. We took her for a riding lesson aged nine, as one does. Her first remark was that the stable yard reeked of horse pee - perceptive infant, though she'd be the last to acknowledge that the entire house is now redolent of that faint yet pungent air! - but once on a horse she has never looked back or down. (Fallen down a fair few times of course, and the danger of her chosen line is never far from our thoughts. I have tried proposing extreme knitting as a cheaper, safer alternative hobby only to be met of course with withering glances and scornful silences.)
My own knowledge of horses is severely limited: the front end bites, the rear end kicks and - as I now know - all the bits in between cost me an arm, a leg, my entire pension pot and every coin I earn then some. E actually prefers my ignorance as I am, unlike other parents at the inevitable weekly shows, precluded from offering reams of arcane and always spurned advice. I can just about muster a 'leg on' comment - when in doubt always urge a rider to keep their leg on; not much idea what it actually means but it never fails to hit the mark - or speak in general terms about position and balance.
This, and my ability to drive a horse box (pastor and truck driver it says on my CV now) is all that is required of me. Oh, and my ever ready cheque book of course - livery fees, feed and endless supplements, saddles and tack for every occasion, vet and farrier bills, rugs enough to keep a Napoleonic army warm stuck in a Russian winter, entry fees for shows, diesel by the oil field [for truck not horse of course!] etc., etc., etc.
She has her own horse - an Irish Sports mare all of 16.2, with a good disposition thank the Lord though also a tendency to be utterly 'mareish' on occasions. (The world of horse is irredeemably sexist!) When in a strop, rearing and plunging at every passing dandelion I call her 'Norma Bates', though mostly we are on good terms and we spend many a quality moment together me chatting to her over the stable door. (I am even becoming known locally as 'the horse chatterer', as I always like to have a little word with each of the nags in the yard when we visit daily.)
Two national and one regional final in her first year - with a cherished rosette on each occasion - is the accomplishment to date. Not bad for a starter. The horse is big and E is not, but together they seem to work well enough. An international rider and instructor tried the horse the other day and pronounced that she had never encountered so strong-willed a mare and that anyone who rode her deserved a medal.
That pleased as scared me in equal measure. Extreme knitting really would be so much fun!
I wonder if the Archdeacon rides. Offer him a little canter on Ms Bates? Watch him bolt off into Featherdown Woods never to return? Hmmm! See how conniving I have become!
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Non floreat CRC it seems...
...Just spoken with H, or rather been on the receiving end of a pretty sharp admonition, rebuke and chastisement! CRC will have to wait it seems.
Apparently, the imminent arrival of the new Archdeacon under our welcoming roof (or indeed not so welcoming to judge by H's take on the whole affair) is - and should have been, according to H, from the moment I received Bishop Tom's letter - a matter of pressing priority and urgent threat to civilisation as we know it.
Now I was not naive enough to believe that Tom would not have been expecting some kind of report from the Archdeacon's induction process round the diocese, but it had certainly not occurred to me to think that he is coming to spy on us, which is H's clear and entrenched view. She tells me that Mildred and she (as ever working in cahoots!) have determined that the Archdeacon is on a mission to drum up charges of more or less false parish accounting in order to prosper his puritanical position within the church.
My reassurance to H that no monies have been 'mislaid' - a common occurrence sadly in some other to-be-nameless parishes not a thousand miles away! - and that the petty cash is as ever penny-perfect, met with more blistering verbal firepower. I had, it seemed, totally misunderstood her central message, which is - I think I have it right now - that the Archdeacon (whom she wonderfully if scandalously calls a 'fire damaged hobbit' no less!) is intent on gathering evidence that we are so fallen from the ways of grace that we spend less time in prayer and penance than we do on raising much needed cash. That accomplished the FDH (I cannot resist!) will leg it back to Tom and insist that he orders all such activities cease forthwith, for the duration or unto the end of time whichever comes later!
Whisper it not in Tyre - but I actually think the Archdeacon might have a point. Perhaps we have become too much a thrifty owl and too little the eagle of gospel witness. Be that as it may I will have no truck with zeal of any flavour, and am not about to undergo some holy Maoist purge at the hands of the FDH!
H is herself too fired up about this to be trusted to take a sensible lead. (Her passion even had me momentarily mentally checking the weedkiller was safely locked in the garden shed!) We will together plan our very welcoming response to the Archdeacon and I shall ensure all steps - reasonable, rational and proportionate - are taken to leave him reassured as to our ecclesial probity.
....A brief pause: that was Maurice on the telephone saying he'd heard FDH (as even he now knows to call him!) is on his way and that he [Maurice not the Archdeacon] will be round this evening for an initial scoping session with H, Mildred and I - plus secretarial support and a flipchart!
Time for a pre-meeting meeting with a whisky glass methinks! FDH arrives for supper on Friday. Must ensure cook has fish to serve and not, sadly, that rather good pheasant Miriam's brother sent over.
Apparently, the imminent arrival of the new Archdeacon under our welcoming roof (or indeed not so welcoming to judge by H's take on the whole affair) is - and should have been, according to H, from the moment I received Bishop Tom's letter - a matter of pressing priority and urgent threat to civilisation as we know it.
Now I was not naive enough to believe that Tom would not have been expecting some kind of report from the Archdeacon's induction process round the diocese, but it had certainly not occurred to me to think that he is coming to spy on us, which is H's clear and entrenched view. She tells me that Mildred and she (as ever working in cahoots!) have determined that the Archdeacon is on a mission to drum up charges of more or less false parish accounting in order to prosper his puritanical position within the church.
My reassurance to H that no monies have been 'mislaid' - a common occurrence sadly in some other to-be-nameless parishes not a thousand miles away! - and that the petty cash is as ever penny-perfect, met with more blistering verbal firepower. I had, it seemed, totally misunderstood her central message, which is - I think I have it right now - that the Archdeacon (whom she wonderfully if scandalously calls a 'fire damaged hobbit' no less!) is intent on gathering evidence that we are so fallen from the ways of grace that we spend less time in prayer and penance than we do on raising much needed cash. That accomplished the FDH (I cannot resist!) will leg it back to Tom and insist that he orders all such activities cease forthwith, for the duration or unto the end of time whichever comes later!
Whisper it not in Tyre - but I actually think the Archdeacon might have a point. Perhaps we have become too much a thrifty owl and too little the eagle of gospel witness. Be that as it may I will have no truck with zeal of any flavour, and am not about to undergo some holy Maoist purge at the hands of the FDH!
H is herself too fired up about this to be trusted to take a sensible lead. (Her passion even had me momentarily mentally checking the weedkiller was safely locked in the garden shed!) We will together plan our very welcoming response to the Archdeacon and I shall ensure all steps - reasonable, rational and proportionate - are taken to leave him reassured as to our ecclesial probity.
....A brief pause: that was Maurice on the telephone saying he'd heard FDH (as even he now knows to call him!) is on his way and that he [Maurice not the Archdeacon] will be round this evening for an initial scoping session with H, Mildred and I - plus secretarial support and a flipchart!
Time for a pre-meeting meeting with a whisky glass methinks! FDH arrives for supper on Friday. Must ensure cook has fish to serve and not, sadly, that rather good pheasant Miriam's brother sent over.
Maurice non nem. con.
Spoke with Maurice this morning about forming a committee to carry forward the work of CRC [see previous postings] and was oddly surprised by his lack of enthusiasm for the project!
Now Maurice - village butcher and erstwhile ladies man - is not normally so coy when it comes to committee work. Indeed some would say that were he to be faced with the choice of an evening spent wrestling with the finer points of the proper voting protocol for co-opted members or grappling with a willing female, Maurice would leave the woman to sort herself out and head straight for the committee room. (I have, myself, witnessed an almost ecstatic glee light up his normally glum face when, with heavy and utterly false reluctance, he has used his chairman's authority to overrule a motion that displeased him.)
It is not so much, I believe, the use or abuse of power that thrills him. Rather it is a deep personal delight in comprehending and understanding the reign and rule of authority as things in themselves. Like a minor deity, charged with say minding the weather in the northern hemisphere, Maurice is simply fascinated that such a power exists and that he has been given authority to use it. Quite childlike in this regard is Maurice.
Anticipating therefore that Maurice would be habitually willing to involve himself in my inspired CRC work, I was quite taken aback when he said that on the whole he wouldn't mind if this one passed him by. So unlike the man indeed that I had to ask why not. His reply was a glory of ambiguity and obfuscation, so much so that at first I assumed he was seeking to imply - without being brazen - that his other, more sensuous, interests precluded devoting the required time or energy to CRC.
On reflection though, it struck me that Maurice's reluctance was a result of his instant appraisal that CRC lacked one facet vital to good committee work (everyone would be in favour and therefore there would be no argument, dispute or rancour) and also possessed one extra ingredient not to his liking at all (CRC would be a raging national success and would therefore actually achieve something).
A slur perhaps on a great man, but I really think that Maurice - as with so many of his committee-loving bent - can only properly and happily function if the hours of turgid, complex yet compelling debate required of a good committee never ends in decisive action but remains an eternal and internal wrangle of words.
A camel may indeed be a horse designed by a committee, but a very sloppy one [committee not camel] at that. Any half-decent committee would ensure that the animal in question remained merely an acceptable notion in broad terms, but one much in need of further detailed consideration with an interim report to be produced at some uncertain future date.
Floreat CRC - but without Maurice! Oh dear, must ask H for her advice.
Now Maurice - village butcher and erstwhile ladies man - is not normally so coy when it comes to committee work. Indeed some would say that were he to be faced with the choice of an evening spent wrestling with the finer points of the proper voting protocol for co-opted members or grappling with a willing female, Maurice would leave the woman to sort herself out and head straight for the committee room. (I have, myself, witnessed an almost ecstatic glee light up his normally glum face when, with heavy and utterly false reluctance, he has used his chairman's authority to overrule a motion that displeased him.)
It is not so much, I believe, the use or abuse of power that thrills him. Rather it is a deep personal delight in comprehending and understanding the reign and rule of authority as things in themselves. Like a minor deity, charged with say minding the weather in the northern hemisphere, Maurice is simply fascinated that such a power exists and that he has been given authority to use it. Quite childlike in this regard is Maurice.
Anticipating therefore that Maurice would be habitually willing to involve himself in my inspired CRC work, I was quite taken aback when he said that on the whole he wouldn't mind if this one passed him by. So unlike the man indeed that I had to ask why not. His reply was a glory of ambiguity and obfuscation, so much so that at first I assumed he was seeking to imply - without being brazen - that his other, more sensuous, interests precluded devoting the required time or energy to CRC.
On reflection though, it struck me that Maurice's reluctance was a result of his instant appraisal that CRC lacked one facet vital to good committee work (everyone would be in favour and therefore there would be no argument, dispute or rancour) and also possessed one extra ingredient not to his liking at all (CRC would be a raging national success and would therefore actually achieve something).
A slur perhaps on a great man, but I really think that Maurice - as with so many of his committee-loving bent - can only properly and happily function if the hours of turgid, complex yet compelling debate required of a good committee never ends in decisive action but remains an eternal and internal wrangle of words.
A camel may indeed be a horse designed by a committee, but a very sloppy one [committee not camel] at that. Any half-decent committee would ensure that the animal in question remained merely an acceptable notion in broad terms, but one much in need of further detailed consideration with an interim report to be produced at some uncertain future date.
Floreat CRC - but without Maurice! Oh dear, must ask H for her advice.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Campaign for Real Christmas...
...Dismayed to discover that, as yet, the Telegraph has not seen fit to publish my letter of admonition regarding Tesco and their premature 'Merry Christmas' in-store message, though an acknowledgement from that nice Simon Heffer of an e-mail on a related matter of modern social injustice. (Today the Wolds, tomorrow the comment column of a national organ!)
Too late doubtless to impact on this year, I am now however announcing my 'Campaign for Real Christmas' with the aim and hope of effecting change by this time next year. I'm not actually sure I know at this stage what should constitute a 'real' Christmas, beyond one that does not begin in late summer or, at best, early autumn!
Let it be as secular as it likes - let unwished-for presents, dry turkey and damp relatives abound; let unnecessary and unaffordable expenditure flourish, if it must - only let it be a season that has a crisp beginning and one not before the onset of Advent please.
There will be campaigning - naturally - there will be protest even and, possibly, a direct action faction that will buy up all Christmas crackers on sale in August and pull them with the passing, puzzled public in the streets.
Like a Welsh politician, I can feel a committee coming on. Must speak to Maurice about this in the morning. (If one can use charisma and committee in the same sentence, then it would be said of Maurice that slice him any which way you care to - and there are some not far from here who would indeed care to - you will find 'AOB' writ in his blood and soul.)
Too late doubtless to impact on this year, I am now however announcing my 'Campaign for Real Christmas' with the aim and hope of effecting change by this time next year. I'm not actually sure I know at this stage what should constitute a 'real' Christmas, beyond one that does not begin in late summer or, at best, early autumn!
Let it be as secular as it likes - let unwished-for presents, dry turkey and damp relatives abound; let unnecessary and unaffordable expenditure flourish, if it must - only let it be a season that has a crisp beginning and one not before the onset of Advent please.
There will be campaigning - naturally - there will be protest even and, possibly, a direct action faction that will buy up all Christmas crackers on sale in August and pull them with the passing, puzzled public in the streets.
Like a Welsh politician, I can feel a committee coming on. Must speak to Maurice about this in the morning. (If one can use charisma and committee in the same sentence, then it would be said of Maurice that slice him any which way you care to - and there are some not far from here who would indeed care to - you will find 'AOB' writ in his blood and soul.)
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Shock and Awe!
Helen here.
Never mind dear PP's missionary zeal, he has just let slip that he had a letter from Tom Thumb [small Bishops are always so ambitious] that the Archdeacon is coming to stay next week! Dear deluded soul told me he hardly troubled to mention the letter he received yesterday, as he knew how much I loved entertaining and would surely be taking such a little thing in my stride!
TT has doubtless tired of having such an earnest soul about the palace and decided to send him to us for some respite. Cheers Tom, you're a brick! Not!
Important thing is not to panic, but to telephone Mildred this very moment for advice on how to meet and greet FDH ['Fire Damaged Hobbit' for any who are not keeping up] and above all how to keep his sharp nose out of our account books and our affairs altogether.
Tempting though it is even to ask Mabel - baker to the cognoscenti and Wicca priestess to the pagans [PP simply has no idea bless him what goes on round here!] - for a spell to cast upon our imminent visitor I must resist the Lady Macbeth moment - for now at least!
Never mind dear PP's missionary zeal, he has just let slip that he had a letter from Tom Thumb [small Bishops are always so ambitious] that the Archdeacon is coming to stay next week! Dear deluded soul told me he hardly troubled to mention the letter he received yesterday, as he knew how much I loved entertaining and would surely be taking such a little thing in my stride!
TT has doubtless tired of having such an earnest soul about the palace and decided to send him to us for some respite. Cheers Tom, you're a brick! Not!
Important thing is not to panic, but to telephone Mildred this very moment for advice on how to meet and greet FDH ['Fire Damaged Hobbit' for any who are not keeping up] and above all how to keep his sharp nose out of our account books and our affairs altogether.
Tempting though it is even to ask Mabel - baker to the cognoscenti and Wicca priestess to the pagans [PP simply has no idea bless him what goes on round here!] - for a spell to cast upon our imminent visitor I must resist the Lady Macbeth moment - for now at least!
Merry Christmas Tesco - not
Holy Pooter, I'm on a mission here. Read, if you will, this stinging letter that ought to be appearing in a Daily Telegraph near you soon:
"Sir,
Shopping today at my local Tesco supermarket I was greeted by two large signs wishing me 'Merry Christmas'.
It is not Christmas, merry or otherwise, it is the middle of October; and, as a Christian, I am deeply offended by such total trivialisation of the second most holy feast in my liturgical year.
A protest would go unheard, a boycott unnoticed. I therefore call upon all customers of Tesco - of any or of no faith - to join me henceforth in saying to each and every staff member of that organisation 'And a Merry Christmas to you too' until perhaps somebody gets the point.
Yours faithfully,
Peter Palladas"
"Sir,
Shopping today at my local Tesco supermarket I was greeted by two large signs wishing me 'Merry Christmas'.
It is not Christmas, merry or otherwise, it is the middle of October; and, as a Christian, I am deeply offended by such total trivialisation of the second most holy feast in my liturgical year.
A protest would go unheard, a boycott unnoticed. I therefore call upon all customers of Tesco - of any or of no faith - to join me henceforth in saying to each and every staff member of that organisation 'And a Merry Christmas to you too' until perhaps somebody gets the point.
Yours faithfully,
Peter Palladas"
Happy Eid or Merry Christmas...
...the heavy veil of migraine maximus having lifted it seemed sensible to resume normal duties ASAP - church jankers ack emma, then on to Tesco for the week's shopping. Perhaps I should be more principled and avoid secular tasks on the Sabbath. (Bishop Tom has no strong views on the subject of course, which all the more makes me wish I had.)
Had I been more rigorous in my observance I would have avoided a severe jolt to my temper as well as my values. The battle has long been lost for Christmas goods to be reserved for sale in December or even late November. No sooner are the summer tans returned from Crete or from Corfu than gaudy crackers appear on the shelves. The wonderful season of autumn has been almost totally lost in the plunge from sun cream to brandy butter.
So much one has endured and accepted, but, no, I will not enter any premises in the third week of October to be greeted by a ten by six sign wishing me 'Merry Christmas'. Little have I any desire to exchange festal greetings with a corporate conglomerate at any time, but certainly not months before its rightful time.
That Helen was not there to witness my ensuing public protest was perhaps a blessing. Likely all she would have contributed would have been an admonition not to be such a Holy Pooter. (Thank you for that dear one!)
I marched up to a managerial minion and greeted him loudly 'Happy Eid dear fellow!' His blank stare - the kind that says 'Call security, we've a right nutter here' - was sufficient to confirm what I had suspected: he would not know that this most significant of Muslim feasts is due over the horizon early next week.
'Oh sorry,' I continue with laboured irony. 'How premature of me. Eid is not until Tuesday. Why don't I wish you Merry Christmas instead? After all that's nearly upon us, can't be more than ten weeks away.'
It was, I think, the added Santa-esque 'Ho, ho, ho' that tipped the balance from 'The customer is always right' to 'This customer is right off his shopping trolley'. Be that as it may, security were rather sweet as they escorted me from the building - even helped load my shopping into the car.
Tesco's is to be boycotted until at least the New Year.
And so to Evensong.
Had I been more rigorous in my observance I would have avoided a severe jolt to my temper as well as my values. The battle has long been lost for Christmas goods to be reserved for sale in December or even late November. No sooner are the summer tans returned from Crete or from Corfu than gaudy crackers appear on the shelves. The wonderful season of autumn has been almost totally lost in the plunge from sun cream to brandy butter.
So much one has endured and accepted, but, no, I will not enter any premises in the third week of October to be greeted by a ten by six sign wishing me 'Merry Christmas'. Little have I any desire to exchange festal greetings with a corporate conglomerate at any time, but certainly not months before its rightful time.
That Helen was not there to witness my ensuing public protest was perhaps a blessing. Likely all she would have contributed would have been an admonition not to be such a Holy Pooter. (Thank you for that dear one!)
I marched up to a managerial minion and greeted him loudly 'Happy Eid dear fellow!' His blank stare - the kind that says 'Call security, we've a right nutter here' - was sufficient to confirm what I had suspected: he would not know that this most significant of Muslim feasts is due over the horizon early next week.
'Oh sorry,' I continue with laboured irony. 'How premature of me. Eid is not until Tuesday. Why don't I wish you Merry Christmas instead? After all that's nearly upon us, can't be more than ten weeks away.'
It was, I think, the added Santa-esque 'Ho, ho, ho' that tipped the balance from 'The customer is always right' to 'This customer is right off his shopping trolley'. Be that as it may, security were rather sweet as they escorted me from the building - even helped load my shopping into the car.
Tesco's is to be boycotted until at least the New Year.
And so to Evensong.
Best Mates...
Helen here.
Whilst dear PP was sleeping off an industrial strength migraine I slipped into town for some shopping only to find the place abuzz with the horrid news of yet another lethal stabbing. Two youths had fought a duel outside a wine bar in the middle of the day leaving one slain and the other, wounded and dazed, wandering off into the crowd. The assailant was soon arrested and is now facing life in gaol for a moment's frenzy.
The cause of death? Some small slight, some words of disrespect, some petty feud? Probably no more or less than that. We are become like Borges' Argentinians, ever vigilant to respond to a perceived offence necessitating violence. This is not my life, nor is it the way of the Wolds as we know it, but as the hero of 'The South' even we now are becoming embroiled in this culture of respectful death. Must I too pack a blade in my purse lest the greengrocer's assistant look at me in some wrong way? Should my sword be ready to run through the next ticket inspector who questions the validity of my cheap day return?
The chemist's daughter, it seems, was one of a hundred or more witnesses to the crime. She had been due to travel by train and was passing the wine bar as the fight began. She says, apparently, that it seemed at first as nothing more than two bodies slowly dancing in a clumsy embrace. Then one fell to the ground, rising again for a while then crumpling to bloodied stillness. The other - dropping his knife - gazed over at the gathered crowd then slowly walked through the people as if they were not there; as if he could not see any one of them, isolated and alone in the shadow of the valley of death of his making.
On the bus home a young shaven headed man was telling anyone who would listen that the victim was a 'mate' of his. (How sad to lose a friend that way I thought, though there was little in the tone of voice of true personal grief.) Yet in the next breath I heard him say "...and it was my other mate what did it", as if somehow proud to have two 'mates' who could be so callously, yet casually, lethal to each other.
Choose your friends with care and your enemies with caution no doubt. Keep the one close and the other closer certainly. But when the one is the other? PP does not permit despair and for being that rock of hope I thank him, else I would today be in complete despair for our terrible, terrible world.
Whilst dear PP was sleeping off an industrial strength migraine I slipped into town for some shopping only to find the place abuzz with the horrid news of yet another lethal stabbing. Two youths had fought a duel outside a wine bar in the middle of the day leaving one slain and the other, wounded and dazed, wandering off into the crowd. The assailant was soon arrested and is now facing life in gaol for a moment's frenzy.
The cause of death? Some small slight, some words of disrespect, some petty feud? Probably no more or less than that. We are become like Borges' Argentinians, ever vigilant to respond to a perceived offence necessitating violence. This is not my life, nor is it the way of the Wolds as we know it, but as the hero of 'The South' even we now are becoming embroiled in this culture of respectful death. Must I too pack a blade in my purse lest the greengrocer's assistant look at me in some wrong way? Should my sword be ready to run through the next ticket inspector who questions the validity of my cheap day return?
The chemist's daughter, it seems, was one of a hundred or more witnesses to the crime. She had been due to travel by train and was passing the wine bar as the fight began. She says, apparently, that it seemed at first as nothing more than two bodies slowly dancing in a clumsy embrace. Then one fell to the ground, rising again for a while then crumpling to bloodied stillness. The other - dropping his knife - gazed over at the gathered crowd then slowly walked through the people as if they were not there; as if he could not see any one of them, isolated and alone in the shadow of the valley of death of his making.
On the bus home a young shaven headed man was telling anyone who would listen that the victim was a 'mate' of his. (How sad to lose a friend that way I thought, though there was little in the tone of voice of true personal grief.) Yet in the next breath I heard him say "...and it was my other mate what did it", as if somehow proud to have two 'mates' who could be so callously, yet casually, lethal to each other.
Choose your friends with care and your enemies with caution no doubt. Keep the one close and the other closer certainly. But when the one is the other? PP does not permit despair and for being that rock of hope I thank him, else I would today be in complete despair for our terrible, terrible world.
Saturday, October 21, 2006
QN recap...
...By great mercy last night's quiz passed without incident for a change and there was even a cheer - albeit no more than half-hearted - for the winning team. Just as well perhaps that I was able, therefore, to keep my highly-charged tee-shirt under wraps thus avoiding the inevitable shock and awe its revelation would have produced.
But if the quiz itself were stress free, the night as a whole was not. As a man for whom migraines are virtually synonymous with being awake, I was not at all phased to find my vision had become of a sudden a bit blurry. Ah, we thought, here come the flashing lights to signal yet another bout of pain and dislocation. Who indeed needs psychotropic non-prescription medication when ordinary living provides more hallucinogenic moments than your average San Fran acid party from the 1960s?
Funnily enough though the predicted next steps did not and have not occurred, yet I am left with a blurring of the sight and a half glimpsed block of dark non-vision in the upper left quadrant. And so what does the average hypochondriac do in such circumstances? Why, spend half the night browsing the Net finding diseases to match his symptoms. Gone are the days when one had to flick page after page of dense printed text in the hope of stumbling upon something vaguely relevant to the case. Now a few choice search words and bingo we have 'retinal vein occlusion' as a certain self-diagnosis.
Ab esse ad posse valet of course though, as ever, a posse ad esse non valet. For those whose higher education avoided the intricacies of Thomist theology, that roughly translates as 'ain't necessarily so'. Because RVO exists it does not follow that RVO is what I have, but its a working hypothesis to be tested using appropriate differential diagnostic tools. In short, I could I suppose telephone Moorfields and calming announce I shall be attending shortly with a minimal branch RVO and merely wait for their nodding approval of the self-aware patient.
But hypochondriacs know that proper physicians - and certainly their clinical minions who actually answer the telephones - take a dim view of the all-singing, all-dancing patient who swans through the door with that smug look of "I'm about to tell you so." If I do, therefore, contact the specialists I will simply mumble a few phrases of doubt and concern and leave them to do the donkey work as they prefer. Alternatively I will probably do the 'bloke thing' and simply ignore the whole event in the hope and expectation that it will just go away.
Foolishly enough I tried doing that with cancer a few years back, and funnily enough - you'll agree - as a strategy that one failed abysmally.
And so to ponder the right course of action or inaction.
But if the quiz itself were stress free, the night as a whole was not. As a man for whom migraines are virtually synonymous with being awake, I was not at all phased to find my vision had become of a sudden a bit blurry. Ah, we thought, here come the flashing lights to signal yet another bout of pain and dislocation. Who indeed needs psychotropic non-prescription medication when ordinary living provides more hallucinogenic moments than your average San Fran acid party from the 1960s?
Funnily enough though the predicted next steps did not and have not occurred, yet I am left with a blurring of the sight and a half glimpsed block of dark non-vision in the upper left quadrant. And so what does the average hypochondriac do in such circumstances? Why, spend half the night browsing the Net finding diseases to match his symptoms. Gone are the days when one had to flick page after page of dense printed text in the hope of stumbling upon something vaguely relevant to the case. Now a few choice search words and bingo we have 'retinal vein occlusion' as a certain self-diagnosis.
Ab esse ad posse valet of course though, as ever, a posse ad esse non valet. For those whose higher education avoided the intricacies of Thomist theology, that roughly translates as 'ain't necessarily so'. Because RVO exists it does not follow that RVO is what I have, but its a working hypothesis to be tested using appropriate differential diagnostic tools. In short, I could I suppose telephone Moorfields and calming announce I shall be attending shortly with a minimal branch RVO and merely wait for their nodding approval of the self-aware patient.
But hypochondriacs know that proper physicians - and certainly their clinical minions who actually answer the telephones - take a dim view of the all-singing, all-dancing patient who swans through the door with that smug look of "I'm about to tell you so." If I do, therefore, contact the specialists I will simply mumble a few phrases of doubt and concern and leave them to do the donkey work as they prefer. Alternatively I will probably do the 'bloke thing' and simply ignore the whole event in the hope and expectation that it will just go away.
Foolishly enough I tried doing that with cancer a few years back, and funnily enough - you'll agree - as a strategy that one failed abysmally.
And so to ponder the right course of action or inaction.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Quiz Night Blues...
Dreadful night ahead. I use the word in its Biblical sense - a night I approach with mortal fear before the terrible. It is our monthly Quiz Night down at The Dragon Inn and I must as ever attend. Dear George, as with so much in life, is blissfully ignorant of the demon he has unleashed in creating this monster; more terrifying than any fell dragon his namesake might have been called upon to face.
It's not that I mind being found ignorant of so much, or the taunts of my fellow team members who seem eternally surprised that a man with two degrees knows nothing of modern cultural mores. One could even argue that it is a matter of some proper pride failing to recall the precise moment in 'Eastenders' when such-and-such a creature met their just, if unlawful, end at the hands of a long wronged spouse. When first strongarmed into taking part I did make much of the unlikelihood that my own special area of knowledge - the social and economic impact of the Iconoclast controversy in Byzantium - would ever figure prominently in any question asked; and it has not to this day.
No, it is not the intellectual challenge that irritates me so, but rather that as pastor I am not wanting to be spending good pub time having to employ my eirenic skills resolving the inevitable and acrimonious disputes that always arise and which threaten to tear friend from friend, neighbour from neighbour.
Bad enough are the internal team disputes about whether sperm whales can be considered an endangered species in a typological as opposed to a morphological sense. It is muggins here of course who gets called upon to pour the oil of balm on the raging waters of discontent by intimating the validity of either argument, only to be roundly rebuked by both parties who demand I must, Solomon-like, judge for one side or the other.
Worse even than that are the frequent moments when teams turn on poor George as quizmaster and insist his answers are simply wrong; that he has failed in his research and that 1763 simply is not the year in which the Spinning Jenny was first used in this country. (I will accept that most scholars do prefer 1764, though there are some sources that believe 1769 is in fact the correct date as the earlier device was subsequently much modified before being introduced as the machine we now know by that name. See how complex this whole thing is?!)
George may not be the sharpest blade in the drawer, nor the swiftest hare in the field, but he does work hard with his encyclopaedias trying to set challenging yet answerable quizzes and is deeply offended if his labours in that particular vineyard are belittled and scorned. If George is thrown into a serious sulk the beer can be off for a week!
The problem has become far worse recently, as George has taken to using the Internet - a device from the Devil's bottom if ever there were one! - to search for his questions, without understanding that anything and everything can and is said there with no one to admonish error or to correct heresy. He'll grab a factoid from the net and assume it must be true because it is there on his computer screen in front of him. I have tried to enlighten him with examples of net pages dedicated to the most absurd and unbelievable nonsense, but he won't have it. His was a generation that was brought up to trust the written word, howsoever presented, and the result sadly has become quizzes strewn with errors that are instantly and savagely challenged.
And where am I in all this fracas? Why, of course, standing in the middle of the lounge bar attempting to soothe and to mend, when I should be enjoying my ale. Tonight though will be different. I shall abondon the clerical black and don layman's mufti. I don't care if it results in trouble with the Bishop, but when things turn ugly and everyone then turns to me for assistance they will see me sitting quietly there with my pint and my tee-shirt that reads: "I'm so sorry, you must be confusing me with someone who gives a sh1t". That'll teach 'em to leave me alone, I do so earnestly hope and pray!
It's not that I mind being found ignorant of so much, or the taunts of my fellow team members who seem eternally surprised that a man with two degrees knows nothing of modern cultural mores. One could even argue that it is a matter of some proper pride failing to recall the precise moment in 'Eastenders' when such-and-such a creature met their just, if unlawful, end at the hands of a long wronged spouse. When first strongarmed into taking part I did make much of the unlikelihood that my own special area of knowledge - the social and economic impact of the Iconoclast controversy in Byzantium - would ever figure prominently in any question asked; and it has not to this day.
No, it is not the intellectual challenge that irritates me so, but rather that as pastor I am not wanting to be spending good pub time having to employ my eirenic skills resolving the inevitable and acrimonious disputes that always arise and which threaten to tear friend from friend, neighbour from neighbour.
Bad enough are the internal team disputes about whether sperm whales can be considered an endangered species in a typological as opposed to a morphological sense. It is muggins here of course who gets called upon to pour the oil of balm on the raging waters of discontent by intimating the validity of either argument, only to be roundly rebuked by both parties who demand I must, Solomon-like, judge for one side or the other.
Worse even than that are the frequent moments when teams turn on poor George as quizmaster and insist his answers are simply wrong; that he has failed in his research and that 1763 simply is not the year in which the Spinning Jenny was first used in this country. (I will accept that most scholars do prefer 1764, though there are some sources that believe 1769 is in fact the correct date as the earlier device was subsequently much modified before being introduced as the machine we now know by that name. See how complex this whole thing is?!)
George may not be the sharpest blade in the drawer, nor the swiftest hare in the field, but he does work hard with his encyclopaedias trying to set challenging yet answerable quizzes and is deeply offended if his labours in that particular vineyard are belittled and scorned. If George is thrown into a serious sulk the beer can be off for a week!
The problem has become far worse recently, as George has taken to using the Internet - a device from the Devil's bottom if ever there were one! - to search for his questions, without understanding that anything and everything can and is said there with no one to admonish error or to correct heresy. He'll grab a factoid from the net and assume it must be true because it is there on his computer screen in front of him. I have tried to enlighten him with examples of net pages dedicated to the most absurd and unbelievable nonsense, but he won't have it. His was a generation that was brought up to trust the written word, howsoever presented, and the result sadly has become quizzes strewn with errors that are instantly and savagely challenged.
And where am I in all this fracas? Why, of course, standing in the middle of the lounge bar attempting to soothe and to mend, when I should be enjoying my ale. Tonight though will be different. I shall abondon the clerical black and don layman's mufti. I don't care if it results in trouble with the Bishop, but when things turn ugly and everyone then turns to me for assistance they will see me sitting quietly there with my pint and my tee-shirt that reads: "I'm so sorry, you must be confusing me with someone who gives a sh1t". That'll teach 'em to leave me alone, I do so earnestly hope and pray!
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Sad news from Southampton of a Canadian artist beaten to death by young thugs in a random act of street violence. 'Sad' of course does not do justice to the tragedy of a man's death, the grief of his family or the utter brutal horror of children - aged between 13 to 15 the police believe - who kill.
When I was in Southampton as a student I was set upon and beaten by young men acting out the Ultra Violence fantasy of Clockwork Orange. They were dressed as near as they could manage as 'Droogies' and they carried hefty sticks to hurt - though one, bless him, could only muster an umbrella as a weapon, which rather reduced the threatening aspect to the merely comical. ("Oi Mam, yer got a big stick I can borrow I wanna go out and hurt students?" "Sorry son your Da's taken my last big stick in the house, but you can have my brolly if you want and be sure you're back in time for tea and watch the roads won't you." "Thanks Mam, see yer later.")
They beat, they kicked and they thwacked - but their aim was not to kill, just to hurt and, above all, to humiliate. They could have carried on the assault to its fatal end had they chosen, but I suspect they would have been as aghast as I would have been truly mortified had I died from their blows.
And now it is my assailants' off-spring who attack. But these now are natural born killers and that scares me to my very soul that we have become such savage beasts in a single generation.
When I was in Southampton as a student I was set upon and beaten by young men acting out the Ultra Violence fantasy of Clockwork Orange. They were dressed as near as they could manage as 'Droogies' and they carried hefty sticks to hurt - though one, bless him, could only muster an umbrella as a weapon, which rather reduced the threatening aspect to the merely comical. ("Oi Mam, yer got a big stick I can borrow I wanna go out and hurt students?" "Sorry son your Da's taken my last big stick in the house, but you can have my brolly if you want and be sure you're back in time for tea and watch the roads won't you." "Thanks Mam, see yer later.")
They beat, they kicked and they thwacked - but their aim was not to kill, just to hurt and, above all, to humiliate. They could have carried on the assault to its fatal end had they chosen, but I suspect they would have been as aghast as I would have been truly mortified had I died from their blows.
And now it is my assailants' off-spring who attack. But these now are natural born killers and that scares me to my very soul that we have become such savage beasts in a single generation.
Monday, October 16, 2006
Helen here.
Just back from lunch with Mildred to discuss the FDH situation. Little solid progress to report, though always good to chew the bone with M and compare parish notes with a sympathetic mind. Our main line of understanding at present - from a variety of usually dependable sources - is that Old Tom is thinking of asking for a 'position paper' from FDH on the whole matter of the Church and Mammon.
If true this is a wondrous sign of vacillation and delay on Tom's part - a perfect 'do much, do little' approach he so favours. (Much like the old Duke of D who would always listen solemnly to any new proposal, weigh up wisely the pros and the cons and then unswervingly reply "Much better not.") It should take the FDH at least six months if not six years to do justice to such a broad and important topic - long enough indeed to ensure sound defence of the quo est status.
Our source - code name as ever 'Tudor' - over at the seminary has not been able to turn up a deal of gossip or innuendo about the enemy, save mention that a great-grandfather was once cashiered from the Guards for bouncing a cheque. Seemingly a small matter perhaps unto the third generation, though one must not rule out the possibility that resentment of anything or anyone monied might have flowed down the family gene pool to pop up festering in the soul of FDH. (Will mention the subject of bad cheques when next we meet - in a general, in passing way of course - and see if he yelps.)
Mildred did suggest we might consider a pre-emptive MRW offensive and attempt to lure the Archdeacon away from his strict view on life by employing the persuasively deadly charms we ladies all inherit from our mother Eve. A nice thought to take with the good dessert on offer at Bury's - apple and raisin pie - but methinks an MRW strike might just hit a dud here. (I'm so sorry, have I not clarified MRW? Why, 'Monstrous Regiment - or 'Regimen' to use John Knox's original line - of Women' of course. If we cannot yet be priests and officially take charge, we will not resist our sacred duty of undermining all that the men do simply because we can as women.)
Not that I have assumed the FDH to be unseducable - in a purely non-carnal sense you understand of course - nor that he is one of those rare gay men who actually don't like women. Rather I feel that this is an enemy who is capable of using that most awful combination of weaponry - logic, the Gospel and an unassailable sense of personal piety - and in the face of such an onslaught a few ginger slices and a warm smile or two from Tom's niece will not cut the mustard.
I said as much to Mildred and worryingly she agreed with me. She too it seems somehow thinks this FDH creature is a singular and potent force for unease and turbulence. Worrying times indeed if Mildred is thrown off stride. Why, when dear Arthur left her for that floosy in the bookshop you would not have known a thing was the matter if you had not known, as it were. Perfect demeanour throughout the divorce and never once late for flower patrol in Church.
There was a story going the rounds for a while that her young gardener was instrumental in helping her through the worst of the grief, but if so then jolly good luck to her I say. (Doubt dear PP would agree with that last sentiment, but then he does have an Official Line to follow and that can so hinder generous charity I find.)
More on FDH as it unfolds.
Just back from lunch with Mildred to discuss the FDH situation. Little solid progress to report, though always good to chew the bone with M and compare parish notes with a sympathetic mind. Our main line of understanding at present - from a variety of usually dependable sources - is that Old Tom is thinking of asking for a 'position paper' from FDH on the whole matter of the Church and Mammon.
If true this is a wondrous sign of vacillation and delay on Tom's part - a perfect 'do much, do little' approach he so favours. (Much like the old Duke of D who would always listen solemnly to any new proposal, weigh up wisely the pros and the cons and then unswervingly reply "Much better not.") It should take the FDH at least six months if not six years to do justice to such a broad and important topic - long enough indeed to ensure sound defence of the quo est status.
Our source - code name as ever 'Tudor' - over at the seminary has not been able to turn up a deal of gossip or innuendo about the enemy, save mention that a great-grandfather was once cashiered from the Guards for bouncing a cheque. Seemingly a small matter perhaps unto the third generation, though one must not rule out the possibility that resentment of anything or anyone monied might have flowed down the family gene pool to pop up festering in the soul of FDH. (Will mention the subject of bad cheques when next we meet - in a general, in passing way of course - and see if he yelps.)
Mildred did suggest we might consider a pre-emptive MRW offensive and attempt to lure the Archdeacon away from his strict view on life by employing the persuasively deadly charms we ladies all inherit from our mother Eve. A nice thought to take with the good dessert on offer at Bury's - apple and raisin pie - but methinks an MRW strike might just hit a dud here. (I'm so sorry, have I not clarified MRW? Why, 'Monstrous Regiment - or 'Regimen' to use John Knox's original line - of Women' of course. If we cannot yet be priests and officially take charge, we will not resist our sacred duty of undermining all that the men do simply because we can as women.)
Not that I have assumed the FDH to be unseducable - in a purely non-carnal sense you understand of course - nor that he is one of those rare gay men who actually don't like women. Rather I feel that this is an enemy who is capable of using that most awful combination of weaponry - logic, the Gospel and an unassailable sense of personal piety - and in the face of such an onslaught a few ginger slices and a warm smile or two from Tom's niece will not cut the mustard.
I said as much to Mildred and worryingly she agreed with me. She too it seems somehow thinks this FDH creature is a singular and potent force for unease and turbulence. Worrying times indeed if Mildred is thrown off stride. Why, when dear Arthur left her for that floosy in the bookshop you would not have known a thing was the matter if you had not known, as it were. Perfect demeanour throughout the divorce and never once late for flower patrol in Church.
There was a story going the rounds for a while that her young gardener was instrumental in helping her through the worst of the grief, but if so then jolly good luck to her I say. (Doubt dear PP would agree with that last sentiment, but then he does have an Official Line to follow and that can so hinder generous charity I find.)
More on FDH as it unfolds.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Mercy abounding...
...News from America that the Amish, faithful as ever to their ways, have forgiven the killer of their children and have been actively helping and supporting his widow and her children. They are even raising funds to support her now that her husband is dead. Her aunt was welcomed into the house of one of the victims the day after the killings and her grandfather came to the poor child's funeral. Can you imagine that happening here and among us?
Such love and living faith makes me weep for gratitude that such a witness to Christ's unbounded love for all people can thrive in such horrible circumstances.
My God, if only we had such compassion for each other as do the Amish.
Such love and living faith makes me weep for gratitude that such a witness to Christ's unbounded love for all people can thrive in such horrible circumstances.
My God, if only we had such compassion for each other as do the Amish.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
FW&AF...
For the umpteenth time watched FW&AF tonight. Not sure why, but suspect it was a certain nostalgia for days when light, gentle, romantic British films had an innocence and a gaiety that we relished and adored. Just over ten years on would such sweetness still hold good? I doubt it.
But more, whenever now I see that film I'm so struck that the very crew who made it would have gathered five years ago now for the real and sad funeral of Scarlett - Charlotte Coleman - who died so young of an asthma attack.
I have been dreaming much of coffins these past few weeks - my own primarily, slipping quietly and finally under a lush green turf. Fingers crossed this does not presage anything too deadly, merely morbid thoughts run rampant.
There were - perhaps still are - orders of nuns and friars who would sleep in their own coffins for their beds. A nightly reminder of their final ends. Good for the soul if not for the posture or back. Carthusians though are not even buried in coffins, a simple shroud sufficing. Don't think they sleep in hammocks.
And so to sleep perchance to dream!
But more, whenever now I see that film I'm so struck that the very crew who made it would have gathered five years ago now for the real and sad funeral of Scarlett - Charlotte Coleman - who died so young of an asthma attack.
I have been dreaming much of coffins these past few weeks - my own primarily, slipping quietly and finally under a lush green turf. Fingers crossed this does not presage anything too deadly, merely morbid thoughts run rampant.
There were - perhaps still are - orders of nuns and friars who would sleep in their own coffins for their beds. A nightly reminder of their final ends. Good for the soul if not for the posture or back. Carthusians though are not even buried in coffins, a simple shroud sufficing. Don't think they sleep in hammocks.
And so to sleep perchance to dream!
Friday, October 13, 2006
"In full agreement..."
Helen here, reeling from Tony Blair's complete affrontery in claiming he agrees with the frank and righteous words of General Sir Richard Dannatt about the need to get out of Iraq and get out quick. What total gall and front if TB believes we will swallow such a claim. Is there no shame in the man whatsoever? Does TB think we have collectively lost all memory and reason. George Orwell should be living now - this is pure '1984' pretending that lies are truth and truth lies.
PP and I do not see eye to eye politically on most things - whether concerning the worlds sacred or profane - but on opposition to the war in Iraq we spoke and speak with one voice. To London we went for protest, and dear PP nearly got himself arrested for shouting what was almost an obscenity as we passed by Downing Street. How I loved him in that moment - though of course the oaf still can't see that having women priests would have prevented the whole fiasco in the first place!
To our surprise and delight the Bishop, far from criticising our stand, preached his own very soulful and pained sermon on the evils of all war and the very particular evil of an illegal war. Not may folk would have known of St Thomas Aquinas's careful and sound views on the theology of 'the just war' before old Tom spoke that day, but they certainly came away knowing more than when they went in!
I sometimes think I would end my days happy if I could give Tony Blair a public slap - just as one would a miscreant who needed to be shocked back into reality. Wake up and feel the sting TB!
Supper's nearly ready PP if you're reading this in your den:)
PP and I do not see eye to eye politically on most things - whether concerning the worlds sacred or profane - but on opposition to the war in Iraq we spoke and speak with one voice. To London we went for protest, and dear PP nearly got himself arrested for shouting what was almost an obscenity as we passed by Downing Street. How I loved him in that moment - though of course the oaf still can't see that having women priests would have prevented the whole fiasco in the first place!
To our surprise and delight the Bishop, far from criticising our stand, preached his own very soulful and pained sermon on the evils of all war and the very particular evil of an illegal war. Not may folk would have known of St Thomas Aquinas's careful and sound views on the theology of 'the just war' before old Tom spoke that day, but they certainly came away knowing more than when they went in!
I sometimes think I would end my days happy if I could give Tony Blair a public slap - just as one would a miscreant who needed to be shocked back into reality. Wake up and feel the sting TB!
Supper's nearly ready PP if you're reading this in your den:)
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Today began my annual silent row with the butcher. He knows that I passionately object to his advertising Christmas turkeys in October and I know that he's not keen either but thinks he must or else Tesco will get there first. I understand his business needs and he understands my liturgical objections, yet nonetheless here we are again silently growling at each other.
"What would happen," I have tried to explain to him, "If you said to a Muslim person 'Happy Eid' before the fast of Ramadan had even begun? They would look at you as quite bonkers and I feel the same when you effectively offer me a Christmas greeting months before the start of Advent!"
"Be that as it may Reverence, I don't know anything about Eid - not much call for it round these parts. What I do know is that my profit's all made in December these days and blowed if I'm going to be left with an empty till because you wish we still lived in 1306 and not 2006."
Such will be his reply and what can I say but fair point well made....
...And so to bed, though pray God not to dream I am a trying to preach a sermon on Christmas Day and only making turkey gobbling noises!
"What would happen," I have tried to explain to him, "If you said to a Muslim person 'Happy Eid' before the fast of Ramadan had even begun? They would look at you as quite bonkers and I feel the same when you effectively offer me a Christmas greeting months before the start of Advent!"
"Be that as it may Reverence, I don't know anything about Eid - not much call for it round these parts. What I do know is that my profit's all made in December these days and blowed if I'm going to be left with an empty till because you wish we still lived in 1306 and not 2006."
Such will be his reply and what can I say but fair point well made....
...And so to bed, though pray God not to dream I am a trying to preach a sermon on Christmas Day and only making turkey gobbling noises!
My lunchtime spat with the beloved quite put out of my mind the intention of a few words on yesterday's trip to London. Not a usual event, as I imagine you will have gathered and if I had my way it would be rarer than the proverbial hen's teeth. Can't abide the place, nor in truth do I much care the inescapable feeling that I must have 'Naive countryman' scrawled on my forehead.
But needs must and to town for a 'Ways Forward' shindig at Palais de Lambeth. (Why not a session on 'Ways Back When' one of these days I ask?) Time was when the dog-collar was a handy device for ensuring a modicum of civilised behaviours from the S&G locals - if not exactly guaranteeing a seat on the Tube, at least you would not expect to harried or hectored by strangers. (Clerical deference is no bad thing for either party methinks. Laity benefits from feeling if not actually being pious and clergy get left alone, which is all they ask in public places.)
Sadly these days are far behind us and yesterday was one cavalry charge of rudeness after another. Standing harmlessly on the Circle line platform at Liverpool Street, I was as astonished as upset when a man intent on his train pushed right through me as if I wasn't there. His eyes were as blank as the mad or the drugged - he may have been either or both though I suspect he was as sober and sane as any average commuter - and when we made bruising body contact there was simply no registering that he had felt a thing. He was to all intents and purposes insensate, a robotic 'droid.
The one clear sense I did feel from him though was anger - a generalised rather than a particular anger. He was angry with me for being there, but he was just angry in itself. He was as possessed by anger as some men are by the devil. If it were a sin then this was truly deadly for he was deadened. But I wouldn't rush to judge - Hunter Thompson did not write of 'Fear and Loathing' without reason: when you are afraid then fear turns to anger - impotent rage rather - at what threatens, and if you don't know exactly what does actually threaten then the rage has to be at everything just in case that one thing is the threat itself.
So was it just simply modern urban life that scared him so? Possibly, though I have no recent experience on which to base analysis. If though he were afraid of hurrying towards a hideous death, blown to pieces in a darkened tunnel lit only by the blaze of the blast that destroys him, then I too know that fear. There are places the rattling Tube runs through that are scarred and haunted by the horror of last year. They are too, in their way, sacred places because God was there in those very tunnels - hoping, healing and loving - in the moments of devastation and death. I passed through one of those places yesterday and my head was bowed in prayer and in fear.
I don't think we in the Wolds have any idea of what it was to be in London that day, but I'm sure that my angry, hurrying man does.
And so to prayer.
But needs must and to town for a 'Ways Forward' shindig at Palais de Lambeth. (Why not a session on 'Ways Back When' one of these days I ask?) Time was when the dog-collar was a handy device for ensuring a modicum of civilised behaviours from the S&G locals - if not exactly guaranteeing a seat on the Tube, at least you would not expect to harried or hectored by strangers. (Clerical deference is no bad thing for either party methinks. Laity benefits from feeling if not actually being pious and clergy get left alone, which is all they ask in public places.)
Sadly these days are far behind us and yesterday was one cavalry charge of rudeness after another. Standing harmlessly on the Circle line platform at Liverpool Street, I was as astonished as upset when a man intent on his train pushed right through me as if I wasn't there. His eyes were as blank as the mad or the drugged - he may have been either or both though I suspect he was as sober and sane as any average commuter - and when we made bruising body contact there was simply no registering that he had felt a thing. He was to all intents and purposes insensate, a robotic 'droid.
The one clear sense I did feel from him though was anger - a generalised rather than a particular anger. He was angry with me for being there, but he was just angry in itself. He was as possessed by anger as some men are by the devil. If it were a sin then this was truly deadly for he was deadened. But I wouldn't rush to judge - Hunter Thompson did not write of 'Fear and Loathing' without reason: when you are afraid then fear turns to anger - impotent rage rather - at what threatens, and if you don't know exactly what does actually threaten then the rage has to be at everything just in case that one thing is the threat itself.
So was it just simply modern urban life that scared him so? Possibly, though I have no recent experience on which to base analysis. If though he were afraid of hurrying towards a hideous death, blown to pieces in a darkened tunnel lit only by the blaze of the blast that destroys him, then I too know that fear. There are places the rattling Tube runs through that are scarred and haunted by the horror of last year. They are too, in their way, sacred places because God was there in those very tunnels - hoping, healing and loving - in the moments of devastation and death. I passed through one of those places yesterday and my head was bowed in prayer and in fear.
I don't think we in the Wolds have any idea of what it was to be in London that day, but I'm sure that my angry, hurrying man does.
And so to prayer.
Helen,
I am aghast! Not at what you have said, but in your indiscretion in saying it here. Should word ever reach the FDH - felicitous name indeed - your plans will be scuppered and our little bark will be sunk.
My salvation may be in the Lord, but my hope in this instance must be that no one actually reads this blog, which great mercy I am sure is so.
Nonetheless, could we agree some protocol about future 'editorial control'?
Yours ever - in the Vestry if lunch is ready,
PP
I am aghast! Not at what you have said, but in your indiscretion in saying it here. Should word ever reach the FDH - felicitous name indeed - your plans will be scuppered and our little bark will be sunk.
My salvation may be in the Lord, but my hope in this instance must be that no one actually reads this blog, which great mercy I am sure is so.
Nonetheless, could we agree some protocol about future 'editorial control'?
Yours ever - in the Vestry if lunch is ready,
PP
Helen here. Time to get a grip. This blog - a word I have no problems with unlike my darling neologiphobic husband - is in danger of becoming one of those vapid, rural sentimental pieces: all old maids cycling to communion in the morning mist. (What Edwina Currie ever saw in John Major is beyond me, though I wouldn't say the same of some of this generation of show jumpers...of which more anon.)
We have a crisis here in The Wolds that needs tackling head on, and dear PP is not the man for the job. There's a new Archdeacon in town, heavens alone knows how appointed, with a puritanical bent that would put Calvin to shame. I've yet to meet the man, though I hear his demeanour resembles - as it ought - that horrid Steerpike from Gormenghast. Mildred, who has supped a dish of tea in his presence says he resembles a 'fire damaged hobbit', which is as funny as it is uncharitable. Shiny black vestments positively oozing sanctity from every unwashed seam.
Not that being 'more Cromwell than Cromwell' matters a jot in itself - as PP would say "Ours is a broad Church, wide enough even for the most narrow minded" - but I gather the FDH intends to try and persuade the Bishop to ban all parish activities whose primary purpose is to raise funds! What are we to be, Buddhists with begging bowls trusting to the universal spirits that half a ton of lead for the church roof will drop into our laps?!
Apparently the FDH has been overwhelmed on viewing El Greco's wonderful Christ purging the traders from the temple, and has concluded that all trade is an evil if it relates to the Church. Now I'll be first in the queue to protest if funds are invested in anything palpably unethical, but I have a God given 'talent' for raising cash - just ask Sir A at the Hall who found himself shelling out a four figure cheque at last summer's fete without, as he put it, even knowing his hand held a pen - and blowed if I am to be thwarted in my mission.
Nothing official has come down from Bishop's House - Tom's Cafe as we tend to know it round here - so for now I'm keeping my head down and my antennae up. Not sure if FDH represents a genuine, lasting threat to the established order or not. Mustn't be seen to be rebelling until the cause is more certain. But Mildred and I are to rendezvous over salmon salad next Monday to plan our campaign - always good to have a plan.
In the meanwhile I shall telephone my contact at the seminary - Code Name 'Tulip' - to see if she has any gen on this Archdeacon of ours. There is bound to be some emotional trauma behind his Calvinism; perhaps the boys jeered his first faltering attempt at a sermon, or the woman he loved became a nun - or even left him for a nun! And if I should happen to learn of some indiscretion or mishap that could be held in reserve in case of need to launch a covert operation against his reputation, it could not be said that I am wishing to indulge in calumny and detraction, merely obtaining lease on a WMD should it become necessary to let him know one is in my possession!
HP
We have a crisis here in The Wolds that needs tackling head on, and dear PP is not the man for the job. There's a new Archdeacon in town, heavens alone knows how appointed, with a puritanical bent that would put Calvin to shame. I've yet to meet the man, though I hear his demeanour resembles - as it ought - that horrid Steerpike from Gormenghast. Mildred, who has supped a dish of tea in his presence says he resembles a 'fire damaged hobbit', which is as funny as it is uncharitable. Shiny black vestments positively oozing sanctity from every unwashed seam.
Not that being 'more Cromwell than Cromwell' matters a jot in itself - as PP would say "Ours is a broad Church, wide enough even for the most narrow minded" - but I gather the FDH intends to try and persuade the Bishop to ban all parish activities whose primary purpose is to raise funds! What are we to be, Buddhists with begging bowls trusting to the universal spirits that half a ton of lead for the church roof will drop into our laps?!
Apparently the FDH has been overwhelmed on viewing El Greco's wonderful Christ purging the traders from the temple, and has concluded that all trade is an evil if it relates to the Church. Now I'll be first in the queue to protest if funds are invested in anything palpably unethical, but I have a God given 'talent' for raising cash - just ask Sir A at the Hall who found himself shelling out a four figure cheque at last summer's fete without, as he put it, even knowing his hand held a pen - and blowed if I am to be thwarted in my mission.
Nothing official has come down from Bishop's House - Tom's Cafe as we tend to know it round here - so for now I'm keeping my head down and my antennae up. Not sure if FDH represents a genuine, lasting threat to the established order or not. Mustn't be seen to be rebelling until the cause is more certain. But Mildred and I are to rendezvous over salmon salad next Monday to plan our campaign - always good to have a plan.
In the meanwhile I shall telephone my contact at the seminary - Code Name 'Tulip' - to see if she has any gen on this Archdeacon of ours. There is bound to be some emotional trauma behind his Calvinism; perhaps the boys jeered his first faltering attempt at a sermon, or the woman he loved became a nun - or even left him for a nun! And if I should happen to learn of some indiscretion or mishap that could be held in reserve in case of need to launch a covert operation against his reputation, it could not be said that I am wishing to indulge in calumny and detraction, merely obtaining lease on a WMD should it become necessary to let him know one is in my possession!
HP
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Harvest Home...
Not my favourite liturgical event (or more in truth non-event) to hand this Sunday: 'Harvest Festival.' No Saint Harvest in any hagiography I've ever encountered. No record of martyrdom by scything as I recall.
Not that I have anything against a touch of paganism in our celebrations to remind us of our roots. You'll not find me harrumphing about Hallowe'en being a new-fangled American import - far from it indeed as the Feast of All Saints deserves at least a day's preparation, and what is a good sharp, chill November for if not to remember and mourn the dead?
But I've never quite recovered from seeing the film The Whicker Man - which was not as I had imagined a medley of favourite travelogues - thence left wondering whether some, if not many, of my congregation secretly yearn to burn me alive as an offering to the Corn God.
Setting aside though concerns for my personal safety or even any theological quibbles about the validity of the feast, I find it so depressing to see our nave stuffed with seventeen bushel of peas sent over by the local agrindustrial conglomerate, accompanied by three left-over parsnips not fit for the London market and the inevitable tins of produce long past their Jurassic sell-by date. It may be a harvest of a sorts but we are not its home; we are just a way-station on its journey.
I shall play them 'John Barleycorn Must Die' on the harmonium - that should scare them up a bit.
Roll on 'The Day of the Dead' - All Souls and my birthday too by happy / grumpy coincidence.
And so to checking the parish accounts - please God let the petty cash balance this month!
Not that I have anything against a touch of paganism in our celebrations to remind us of our roots. You'll not find me harrumphing about Hallowe'en being a new-fangled American import - far from it indeed as the Feast of All Saints deserves at least a day's preparation, and what is a good sharp, chill November for if not to remember and mourn the dead?
But I've never quite recovered from seeing the film The Whicker Man - which was not as I had imagined a medley of favourite travelogues - thence left wondering whether some, if not many, of my congregation secretly yearn to burn me alive as an offering to the Corn God.
Setting aside though concerns for my personal safety or even any theological quibbles about the validity of the feast, I find it so depressing to see our nave stuffed with seventeen bushel of peas sent over by the local agrindustrial conglomerate, accompanied by three left-over parsnips not fit for the London market and the inevitable tins of produce long past their Jurassic sell-by date. It may be a harvest of a sorts but we are not its home; we are just a way-station on its journey.
I shall play them 'John Barleycorn Must Die' on the harmonium - that should scare them up a bit.
Roll on 'The Day of the Dead' - All Souls and my birthday too by happy / grumpy coincidence.
And so to checking the parish accounts - please God let the petty cash balance this month!
Monday, October 09, 2006
Love Thy Neighbour...
...Good fences do indeed make for good neighbours. (Though the hedge has yet to be invented that can repel noxious bar-b-cue smells I find.) We live on tolerably good terms with our immediate neighbours mercifully, despite the odd whingeing child or over-long party. (Theirs not ours mostly.)
But one, these days, not only has real-time next-doors, one also it transpires has them here in virtual-time. I 'popped over the fence' as it were the other day to see whose 'blog' [still dread word] was to be found adjacent to mine own, and was somewhat startled by what I saw. Not that I could tell you a word of what was there, as it was written in what I had to assume was fluent Arabic. A photograph of a singularly stern looking, robed figure was the only clue to its contents, which were lengthy and of, I would imagine, a hectoring and prescriptive nature. (As a practitioner myself in the dark art of theological persuasion I am apt to recognise a fellow busybody.)
I was also rather alarmed at my instant and almost instinctive assumption that the hidden message [hidden that is from my non-Arabic reading eyes] must be seditious and dangerous. These are troubled times indeed when a fellow cannot squint at another fellow's words without presuming they mean trouble simply because they are literally unreadable.
There was, as I say, something about the deportment of presumably the author - or perhaps a person of whom the author approved - that struck a note of heavy-handed 'This is Truth, So Listen Up.' Yet for all I know these many - and there was page after page of them - words could have been no more than over-elaborate recipes for authentic home cooking, or even messages of universal joy and peace.
In my alarm I leapt back to my side of the fence and I so wish I hadn't. For when I went back today for another look I found my neighbour had been replaced by a far less interesting and, in some ways, far more worrying offer to make me churchloads of money would I but invest a small capital sum upfront.
Is it then the norm for virtual neighbours to come and go this way? It could be an improvement perhaps on having the same people close by year in and year out, though one would never then have the chance to become truly neighbourly as that is a process that takes on average about three generations round here.
Wilf and Doris came up from London in the Blitz for a wedding and, having then heard the news that their home in Poplar had taken a direct hit on the Saturday night, decided to stay safe in the country for a while. That 'while' lasted for over fifty years yet, according to Wilf, although they were accepted as not strangers at once they never in all that time ceased being foreigners. 'You're not from round these parts are you?' people would ask who had known and seen them daily for decades.
"I was a stranger and you took me in." Well yes, that is what these good people did, finding them half a cottage for starters and work for both. But somehow I doubt the Gospel text would have quite the same force if it read "I was a stranger and you took me in, yet you never quite let me forget from whence I came."
And so to the garden.
But one, these days, not only has real-time next-doors, one also it transpires has them here in virtual-time. I 'popped over the fence' as it were the other day to see whose 'blog' [still dread word] was to be found adjacent to mine own, and was somewhat startled by what I saw. Not that I could tell you a word of what was there, as it was written in what I had to assume was fluent Arabic. A photograph of a singularly stern looking, robed figure was the only clue to its contents, which were lengthy and of, I would imagine, a hectoring and prescriptive nature. (As a practitioner myself in the dark art of theological persuasion I am apt to recognise a fellow busybody.)
I was also rather alarmed at my instant and almost instinctive assumption that the hidden message [hidden that is from my non-Arabic reading eyes] must be seditious and dangerous. These are troubled times indeed when a fellow cannot squint at another fellow's words without presuming they mean trouble simply because they are literally unreadable.
There was, as I say, something about the deportment of presumably the author - or perhaps a person of whom the author approved - that struck a note of heavy-handed 'This is Truth, So Listen Up.' Yet for all I know these many - and there was page after page of them - words could have been no more than over-elaborate recipes for authentic home cooking, or even messages of universal joy and peace.
In my alarm I leapt back to my side of the fence and I so wish I hadn't. For when I went back today for another look I found my neighbour had been replaced by a far less interesting and, in some ways, far more worrying offer to make me churchloads of money would I but invest a small capital sum upfront.
Is it then the norm for virtual neighbours to come and go this way? It could be an improvement perhaps on having the same people close by year in and year out, though one would never then have the chance to become truly neighbourly as that is a process that takes on average about three generations round here.
Wilf and Doris came up from London in the Blitz for a wedding and, having then heard the news that their home in Poplar had taken a direct hit on the Saturday night, decided to stay safe in the country for a while. That 'while' lasted for over fifty years yet, according to Wilf, although they were accepted as not strangers at once they never in all that time ceased being foreigners. 'You're not from round these parts are you?' people would ask who had known and seen them daily for decades.
"I was a stranger and you took me in." Well yes, that is what these good people did, finding them half a cottage for starters and work for both. But somehow I doubt the Gospel text would have quite the same force if it read "I was a stranger and you took me in, yet you never quite let me forget from whence I came."
And so to the garden.
Daughter Ericka has unintentionally contributed to the 'To veil or not to veil that is the question' debate by once more intimating that she wants her nose pierced. My stock reply that she needs this like she needs a hole in her head met with the usual withering look, though I always maintain she would be left with an unsightly nasal hole, which will leak in inclement weather. [One is reminded of Spike Milligan's great verse: "The stars are holes where the rain gets in / The holes are small that's why the rain is thin."]
The standard second line of defence for any untoward teenage proposal - 'over my dead body' - failed to end the matter as it used to, and perhaps I ought to abandon an putative option that is clearly becoming both a possibility and also an end not entirely undesired at times by one's nearest and assumed dearest.
But then Helen intervened - helpful as ever! - to remind me that I believed I had once read that Asian women use the nose stud to divert the lustful gaze of the irrepressibly lascivious male from the treacherous pools of the eyes towards the far less exotic nose, thus quelling all Bad Thoughts. That being so, she concluded, would I not rather Ericka took such a preventive chastity measure, howsoever disfiguring it might be?
No Odysseus was ever caught between such twin perils of monstrous Scylla and terrible Charybdis as a poor male between a mother and a teenage daughter. Helen was right of course in principle that anything that reduced the likelihood of Ericka coming to the blighted attention of the local feral youth would have my innate blessing, yet it was clear that giving my imprimatur, as it were, to indelible body art would open as many chambers of horrors as it would close.
Mercifully Ericka came to my rescue - as no doubt Helen knew she would - by yukking the whole idea of doing anything that might lessen her standing in the eyes of the boys of the village, however horrid and undesirable they all actually were. [On that at least we are agreed.]
So nose piercing is off the agenda for now, thank goodness, though the matter has made me reflect as to whether wearers of the niqab are, indeed, having the cake that they eat. Modest most certainly, yet free to twinkle, sparkle and seduce with their eyes to the endless delight and ruin of men.
And so to Mattins
The standard second line of defence for any untoward teenage proposal - 'over my dead body' - failed to end the matter as it used to, and perhaps I ought to abandon an putative option that is clearly becoming both a possibility and also an end not entirely undesired at times by one's nearest and assumed dearest.
But then Helen intervened - helpful as ever! - to remind me that I believed I had once read that Asian women use the nose stud to divert the lustful gaze of the irrepressibly lascivious male from the treacherous pools of the eyes towards the far less exotic nose, thus quelling all Bad Thoughts. That being so, she concluded, would I not rather Ericka took such a preventive chastity measure, howsoever disfiguring it might be?
No Odysseus was ever caught between such twin perils of monstrous Scylla and terrible Charybdis as a poor male between a mother and a teenage daughter. Helen was right of course in principle that anything that reduced the likelihood of Ericka coming to the blighted attention of the local feral youth would have my innate blessing, yet it was clear that giving my imprimatur, as it were, to indelible body art would open as many chambers of horrors as it would close.
Mercifully Ericka came to my rescue - as no doubt Helen knew she would - by yukking the whole idea of doing anything that might lessen her standing in the eyes of the boys of the village, however horrid and undesirable they all actually were. [On that at least we are agreed.]
So nose piercing is off the agenda for now, thank goodness, though the matter has made me reflect as to whether wearers of the niqab are, indeed, having the cake that they eat. Modest most certainly, yet free to twinkle, sparkle and seduce with their eyes to the endless delight and ruin of men.
And so to Mattins
Sunday, October 08, 2006
"Hello Pete, it's Tom. How are the numbers?" How I hate this elision of my already short name. Always have. It's my shibboleth for deciding not to like or trust a person. Puts me then in an awkward situation as this is my Bishop on the telephone, in his usual crisp best Birtist manner demanding to know how many people attended Evensong and whether I'm meeting our MTP - Modified Target Projection [or Money For Tom's People as Helen calls it].
I did once over sherry drop a hint to Bishop Thomas that I doubted "St. Pete" would much care for such a name calling, but it must have been too subtle for BT [our small linguistic revenge] as the habit continues unabated.
As for the numbers, well of course they are like Lords at Christmas - leaping. And just as Christmas itself seems to begin earlier and earlier each year until one doesn't even know if it's this or the next year that people are planning for, so the rush to join Family Communion in order to secure a place for Arthur or Benjamin or Emily at the local Church primary school begins with a rip-tide seemingly before the last one has receded.
In the Good Old Days you'd see them at baptism and then not again until three weeks after the wee lad or lass had begun school - "Just to show willing" as one parent put it with bald frankness. But with cuts and competition everyone now is keenly aware of the need to be well up the ladder of piety in order to stand a chance of gaining a precious entry place.
Won't pretend I'm entirely uneasy about this rational if clearly hypocritical rush to the altar rail. I can work my Xtian magic on any soul that comes within range of my public ministry, whatever the motive that brought them. But - and this is I own truly sad - my main rejoicing is not in Lost Sheep returning to the fold, but in being able to Count Sheep in order to keep the Bishop off my back.
Helen, bless her, stands at the back of the Church as they dutifully file in and file out on a Sunday morning, with one of those mechanical counters clicking away with gusto so that they can hear they have been tallied off. 'Click, click' - Martha and Fred hoping for a school place for cousin Michael. Michael's own parents can't spare time from milking to come themselves, so are sending family instead. [Piety by proxy - not sure this is sound theology, but we'll let it pass for now.] 'Click' - Adam whose wife has run off to the Caribbean leaving him to bring up Simone alone. He'll not fail to find a place for the little half-orphan; that I can - though of course I cannot openly - assure him. 'Click, click, click' - seems a little generous to Edith and Bruce. She is after all only pregnant, but then let's call this a click in potentia. [One more towards the dread Target anyway - who would have thought cheating came so easily?]
"The numbers are well above interim medium projection levels, Your Grace," I can, therefore, happily reply to Tom's brusque enquiry. Steady yet pointed emphasis on his proper ecclesial title - which I know pisses him off greatly. Wouldn't dare do it if numbers were low. [An adjunct to the Theory of Large Numbers methinks.]
And so to the parish rounds.
I did once over sherry drop a hint to Bishop Thomas that I doubted "St. Pete" would much care for such a name calling, but it must have been too subtle for BT [our small linguistic revenge] as the habit continues unabated.
As for the numbers, well of course they are like Lords at Christmas - leaping. And just as Christmas itself seems to begin earlier and earlier each year until one doesn't even know if it's this or the next year that people are planning for, so the rush to join Family Communion in order to secure a place for Arthur or Benjamin or Emily at the local Church primary school begins with a rip-tide seemingly before the last one has receded.
In the Good Old Days you'd see them at baptism and then not again until three weeks after the wee lad or lass had begun school - "Just to show willing" as one parent put it with bald frankness. But with cuts and competition everyone now is keenly aware of the need to be well up the ladder of piety in order to stand a chance of gaining a precious entry place.
Won't pretend I'm entirely uneasy about this rational if clearly hypocritical rush to the altar rail. I can work my Xtian magic on any soul that comes within range of my public ministry, whatever the motive that brought them. But - and this is I own truly sad - my main rejoicing is not in Lost Sheep returning to the fold, but in being able to Count Sheep in order to keep the Bishop off my back.
Helen, bless her, stands at the back of the Church as they dutifully file in and file out on a Sunday morning, with one of those mechanical counters clicking away with gusto so that they can hear they have been tallied off. 'Click, click' - Martha and Fred hoping for a school place for cousin Michael. Michael's own parents can't spare time from milking to come themselves, so are sending family instead. [Piety by proxy - not sure this is sound theology, but we'll let it pass for now.] 'Click' - Adam whose wife has run off to the Caribbean leaving him to bring up Simone alone. He'll not fail to find a place for the little half-orphan; that I can - though of course I cannot openly - assure him. 'Click, click, click' - seems a little generous to Edith and Bruce. She is after all only pregnant, but then let's call this a click in potentia. [One more towards the dread Target anyway - who would have thought cheating came so easily?]
"The numbers are well above interim medium projection levels, Your Grace," I can, therefore, happily reply to Tom's brusque enquiry. Steady yet pointed emphasis on his proper ecclesial title - which I know pisses him off greatly. Wouldn't dare do it if numbers were low. [An adjunct to the Theory of Large Numbers methinks.]
And so to the parish rounds.
Helen attended last night's parish meeting wearing a niqab she had rapidly knocked-up from one of Ericka's cast off tank-tops. She said, of course, that she was wearing it in solidarity with Muslim women who wished they didn't have to see Jack Straw's face leering out at them from every newspaper. I almost hesitated to respond that the gold lame niqab look went out in late Byzantine times, and perhaps I should have indeed refrained from the remark as I swear she mouthed an obscenity at me from under the veil. How very convenient for her and how unfair to me! On the whole the meeting took her protest well, that is they hardly mentioned more than six times in the minutes!
Frank remarked that he was fed up with bad people being given good ideas, as he had been playing his weekly poker night and three of the players had worn the face-hiding niqab as well as their traditional wrap-around sunglasses. Apparently this is to minimise their 'tells' - those unintentional actions or expressions that reveal a good or a bad hand. [One player, I was told, always wore a voluminous hood, much like a medieval monk, to cover his face from show.] I will check, but my memory is that the Koran is not light on the evils of gambling, though of course we Xtians do so rely on tombolas and raffles for church funds.
Frank also said I have an inevitable 'tell' when I reach a part in the sermon which I feel uncomfortable about because I'm not sure I believe what I'm saying. He wouldn't, however, tell me what the tell is, which was disconcerting and will make me very nervous for some weeks. Is doubt really so hard to disguise?
Anyway, apart from Helen's statement of solidarity the meeting passed without incident. That is, nothing as ever was agreed or decided. I must take lessons from Canon Michael down the road, who rules with a rod of ecclesiastical iron and demands consensus on pain of excommunication.
Back home though to awful rows and recriminations. Apparently Ericka had immediately noticed the loss of the tank-top - last worn some seven years ago - and berated Helen as a mother from hell who hated her children. Inner peace was only restored after the third whisky in the study, though how the argument ended between the two of them I cannot say. My suspicion is that resolution will require both of them to go shopping in Norwich for expensive new clothing for each.
And so to bed.
Frank remarked that he was fed up with bad people being given good ideas, as he had been playing his weekly poker night and three of the players had worn the face-hiding niqab as well as their traditional wrap-around sunglasses. Apparently this is to minimise their 'tells' - those unintentional actions or expressions that reveal a good or a bad hand. [One player, I was told, always wore a voluminous hood, much like a medieval monk, to cover his face from show.] I will check, but my memory is that the Koran is not light on the evils of gambling, though of course we Xtians do so rely on tombolas and raffles for church funds.
Frank also said I have an inevitable 'tell' when I reach a part in the sermon which I feel uncomfortable about because I'm not sure I believe what I'm saying. He wouldn't, however, tell me what the tell is, which was disconcerting and will make me very nervous for some weeks. Is doubt really so hard to disguise?
Anyway, apart from Helen's statement of solidarity the meeting passed without incident. That is, nothing as ever was agreed or decided. I must take lessons from Canon Michael down the road, who rules with a rod of ecclesiastical iron and demands consensus on pain of excommunication.
Back home though to awful rows and recriminations. Apparently Ericka had immediately noticed the loss of the tank-top - last worn some seven years ago - and berated Helen as a mother from hell who hated her children. Inner peace was only restored after the third whisky in the study, though how the argument ended between the two of them I cannot say. My suspicion is that resolution will require both of them to go shopping in Norwich for expensive new clothing for each.
And so to bed.
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