Of Saints and Souls

I do sometimes wish I were Mexican, especially at this time of the year. This has nothing to do with a desire for warmer winter months, but more a fondness and sympathy for their exuberance in celebrating the dead.

Dia de los muertos - our All Saints Day, though also really All Souls Day following too - is a colourful and vibrant affair paying tribute to the dead; what G K Chesterton called 'true democracy' - the present paying heed to the past in order to inform the future. (Fireworks and festivities in the graveyard would not do here sadly. Did once suggest it to H and found her response of asking whether my medication had been changed for any reason somewhat offensive!)

The Archdeacon - whom you will recall we last left in the aftermath of a momentous confession of human fallibility - has been appropriately glum, though he says this is in deference to the solemnity of the liturgy and not the result of any moral hangover. It was rather delightful to see him choose the long abandoned black vestments for All Souls. (Nothing quite like black to mark mourning and the modern preferred pastel mauve is horribly insipid.)

I am quite beginning to warm to the young cove. He is as troubled as he might be by what he sees of the world and in himself: a rational and reasonable garb of pessimism in which to wrap the gospel message of hope I always feel. (Can't abide these irrepressibly cheery types who assume a constant aura of seraphic bliss simply because they are beloved by the Lord.) He was even empathetic enough to commiserate with me when I mourned the passing of another dia del nacimiento - though we agreed that if one had to have a birthday at all having in on the very day of the dead was rather wonderfully ironic.

H is still focused on ensuring he leaves without a deep squint at the parish accounts, though I am equally determined to focus on establishing rapport with the fellow.