High Days and Holy Days...

June 16th:


'Bloomsday' if you know it, being the day on which is set James Joyce's great if unreadable novel 'Ulysses'. All right not totally unreadable, my having read it twice. It just feels unreadable as one reads it, if that makes sense. The day then of generalised Joycean frolics in and around Dublin. Recitations, rehearsals and refreshments abounding from Howth Castle through the City and out once more to Dun Laoghaire. And so forth.

Been there, had fun, did eventually get home via a Joyce-inspired pub that had a different name depending on whether you came in by the front or by the back door. Truly, I tell no tale.

Also the day on which I celebrate - if quite the word - the anniversary of my being formally informed that I had sarcoma [See many previous]. Seven years and counting; not bad on an initial prognosis of around six months give or take a day or two.

So a day for some reflection, pause for grateful remembrances etc., etc? In principle yes, in practice not yesterday as such. Wretched jalopy broke down flying from one visit to the next. AA were, as ever, terribly on the case. This time though they did take more than three hours to attend; not entirely helped by the recovery ace being given a duff location - by the AA I add not by self.

John the Garage was long home by the time we finally arrived, so must wait until Monday for sucking of teeth and shaking of head from him. My fear is that this time his mournful demeanour will be horribly apposite. Methinks the gear box is done for and in. Oh mercy the cost of it all. Special collection at Vespers today? Have to admit sorely tempted!



June 17th:


What else but Father's Day. Day of universal indulgence of male parent, utter idleness and pampering? You jest of course. Day of frantic catching up from yesterday's undone tasks, not to mention horse-minding as E is at an all-day and evening (even worse) popular music concert at a distant urban (even much worse) park. H, therefore, is soundly fretting the day through as, I own, am I.

E is not due home until the midnight hour at the earliest. Self is due to depart for a week's stand-in duties at a distant parish some five hours later. Oh mercy, the worry of it all. Special prayers at Vespers today for Fathers - that is a shoe-in.

And then too an especial prayer for Gerry McCann, on this day when being a father is so lovely and so awful both and always at one and the same time.