Yes you read right. H had to take dear E to A&E last night following a crashing fall from her horse. Fear not though. There is a clue in it being H that took her there and not a pair of the Wolds' finest ambulance staff.
We'd been to a qualifying jumping show, our least favourite venue as it's a small indoor arena with a twisty and a dusty course. DJ [the horse] had been jumping like the wind with fine strong strides, clearing fences well though necessitating several turns being executed by pointing the mare at a wall and hoping this would be sufficient to call her to a halt!
There we were - E and DJ approaching the final fences of the jump-off and self peering through the entrance door poised as ever to attend should bad things happen - when suddenly a very bad thing happened. Attempting to negotiate a particularly tight turn, neither horse nor rider could decide whether to manoeuvre to the inside or the outside of an intervening fence. (Indecisive is totally not the thing to be at such a moment.)
Failing to opt for one of two right choices, the pair made the third and seriously wrong choice of crashing sideways into the offending fence. Now show-jumping fences, unlike those solid objects in cross-country, are designed to yield readily to any horse 'n' rider combo that jumps them wrong, though that is on the presumption that they are struck from the front. Poles will pop out of their cradles all too easily - as any rider will moan most forcibly when the merest brush of a trailing hoof is enough to stripe down four faults. Even the stands will part like the corn when hit by half a ton of horse doing a steady if inaccurate 20.
In, however, rare cases such as this - a sideways blow - they are far more resilient. The stands remain in situ, the horse is brought to an immediate halt and the rider is catapulted through the air to land as best she [generally] can. For E that moment yesterday meant taking a crashing fall onto her back, striking unyielding scattered poles and dusty ground alike. (The back of the jacket later being found to bear an vivid blend of dirt and paint, much in the manner of an abstract expressionist painting under the influence of a really bad toothache!)
Pa [self of course] was through the door like a shot, grabbing first - as one must - the loose horse. This is not a mistaking of personal priorities - that the horse is more important than the rider - it is an insurance against the animal losing its cool, as they are wont to do in such circs, stampeding round the place and trampling, for example, any stray rider who happens to be lain prone on the ground.
Horse secured one then sprinted to the stricken dau., who by that point was half-risen, tearful, in great pain and yelling "Bastard, bastard." This latter was a great re-assurance to self. Not that one particularly delights in one's only dau. bellowing semi-obscenities in public of course, but rather as a sign of vitality it was most pleasing. (Be most afraid when they lie there not moving or speaking. That is when the skies darken the deepest.)
Curiously, even as one - and several others - attended the scene I was mentally attempting to fathom at whom or what the curse was aimed. Not the horse (for a mare, from experience, one knows that the obscenity of choice in these situations is 'bloody biatch'), not the rider berating herself (gender again being wrong not to mention riders' immutable inability to hold themselves responsible for any error). It was, one rapidly reflected, a joint bewailing of just failing to qualify for the next stage of the national competition compounded by a generalised disdain for the venue.
Anyways, rider was soon on her feet and back in the saddle. Pain thresholds were acknowledged to be high but not insufferable, misery was profound yet not likely to endure and within the hour we were all safely back at base.
H, the meanwhile, never daring to attend jumping events for fear of having to witness scenes such as described above leaving all the effort and stress to self, determined that back-pain indicated back-damage, necessitating a swift sojourn in A&E for the purpose of a precautionary X-ray.
The NHS in all its majesty daring to disagree with H, gave E the once-over, declined the X-ray and dispatched her home with a dozen or so pain-killers. (Actually, though aligning thus to my own take on the matter, sadly these days it is precisely when the NHS determines that all well that one begins to fear for the worst!)
Morning has shown no further sign of increasing pain or injury, which is a blessing. Less of a good thing though is that now everyone is mooting just how much all of this may have knocked the confidence of either horse or rider. We've just had an extended period of lack of confidence apparent in both following a previous large tumble and face an uncertain few days and weeks before it becomes clear whether each is once more eager to risk life and limb at the jumps.
It won't perhaps come as any surprise to anyone in a comparable situation to one's self to learn that last night was a bedlam of bad dreams - mad wolves devouring the nation's people and, far worse, Scientologists seeking to corrupt our souls.
Happy trails or what one asks?!
Monday, March 12, 2007
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Free The Daniel Robinson One!
Imprisoned in India
Poor Dan! Read the details and I think you'll agree that Dan Robinson should be on his horse not languishing in an Indian jail.
Do help if you feel so moved.
H, E and I have written to the Indian President on the matter. A hefty blow for freedom!
Poor Dan! Read the details and I think you'll agree that Dan Robinson should be on his horse not languishing in an Indian jail.
Do help if you feel so moved.
H, E and I have written to the Indian President on the matter. A hefty blow for freedom!
Friday, March 09, 2007
On Account...
...Funny old world. It has been ages since one actually visited one's wine merchant in person. It - the very merchandiser of fine wines - being in darkest London, whilst one's own self sticks as fast as one can to the deepest countryside, this lack of personal engagement is not perhaps a great matter of surprise.
There is more though to this estrangement than a matter of miles. For some happy decades there was the 'account', infrequently used and not often over-drawn - a mark of a gentleman merely to have it there for use when needed.
"On the account would that be Sir?" would be all that would be required concerning any matter of payment, whether one were quitting the establishment with but a single bottle of house champagne to enliven a dull afternoon at the office or a case or two of the finest Burgundy known to mankind.
Then some years back came the dreadful news: with the advent of credit cards, able to confirm instant payment, accounts were to be jettisoned. Modernisation for the sake of it is bad enough, but to come carrying the merest whiff of suspicion that certain personages - other gentlemens all - had been somewhat loose in their usage of the 'account' - debts often being passed from father to son and unto the third generation in the true English fashion - was anathema not to mention impolite.
Spinning on one's heel as one does at such moments - taking heed indeed of the Pauline advice to show the inhospitable the very sole of one's shoe - a silent boycott has been in place vis a vis 'BB & R Ltd' of St. James's Street (you will know them if you know them) these past ten years or more.
Communication had pretty well ceased on both sides. Myself failing to order even the Christmas Pudding wine from their heavenly store of Tokaj Essentia (a snip at around five largish notes per smallish bottle). Themselves no longer sending the quarterly printed catalogue ("We find most of our customers prefer to browse online" - tripe!) just an occasional jaunty, garish missive urging one to 'get down and boogie' with some 'hip' discounted offer of racy New World 'crackers'. (Simply hideous, like having to watch one's great-aunt Maude attempting a pole-dance!)
But what is a feud for if not to end it? Finding myself in Mayfair yesterday morning with time on my hands, a stroll down St. James's was near enough irresistible, whilst a dive through the ancient doors almost inevitable. Little had changed - as well it oughtn't - still not a bottle of wine in sight, just ancient volumes of wine lore and some dusty portraits of great imbibers of the past. (Only a laptop on the ancient school-mastery desk giving any clue as to the advent of the current century.)
Sir being asked if Sir required assistance, Sir was happy to respond that a half a dozen of 'glasses, red, wine for the purpose of' would suffice. (The same half dozen one had purchased nigh on twenty-five years ago now showing some signs of wear.)
Some small talk then ensued on the matter of 'mailing lists'. A certain recollection of the records confirming one was not excised merely inoperative; a due murmured apology offered, dismissed with ready acknowledgement of one's own part in the sundering of relationships. All matter of distance swept away in a trice. Two Englishmen - well actually he sounded French, but was an honorary Englishman for the purpose of the moment - near to emotional effusion at the very delight of it all.
One left with spirits high and glasses in tow. All seemed suddenly rather sunny.
Oh but then! What comes with the morning post? An announcement that henceforth this very sound establishment would being vending its house wine in 'screw-top' bottles!
This is not so much 'off to Hell in a hand-cart' as the modern idiom would have it. This is arrival at the very portal of the Inferno knocking most earnestly for entry! (Dear, deluded yet essentially sound Colonel Kurtz nailed it when he spoke so movingly of "The Horror, the Horror.")
Take that on account!
There is more though to this estrangement than a matter of miles. For some happy decades there was the 'account', infrequently used and not often over-drawn - a mark of a gentleman merely to have it there for use when needed.
"On the account would that be Sir?" would be all that would be required concerning any matter of payment, whether one were quitting the establishment with but a single bottle of house champagne to enliven a dull afternoon at the office or a case or two of the finest Burgundy known to mankind.
Then some years back came the dreadful news: with the advent of credit cards, able to confirm instant payment, accounts were to be jettisoned. Modernisation for the sake of it is bad enough, but to come carrying the merest whiff of suspicion that certain personages - other gentlemens all - had been somewhat loose in their usage of the 'account' - debts often being passed from father to son and unto the third generation in the true English fashion - was anathema not to mention impolite.
Spinning on one's heel as one does at such moments - taking heed indeed of the Pauline advice to show the inhospitable the very sole of one's shoe - a silent boycott has been in place vis a vis 'BB & R Ltd' of St. James's Street (you will know them if you know them) these past ten years or more.
Communication had pretty well ceased on both sides. Myself failing to order even the Christmas Pudding wine from their heavenly store of Tokaj Essentia (a snip at around five largish notes per smallish bottle). Themselves no longer sending the quarterly printed catalogue ("We find most of our customers prefer to browse online" - tripe!) just an occasional jaunty, garish missive urging one to 'get down and boogie' with some 'hip' discounted offer of racy New World 'crackers'. (Simply hideous, like having to watch one's great-aunt Maude attempting a pole-dance!)
But what is a feud for if not to end it? Finding myself in Mayfair yesterday morning with time on my hands, a stroll down St. James's was near enough irresistible, whilst a dive through the ancient doors almost inevitable. Little had changed - as well it oughtn't - still not a bottle of wine in sight, just ancient volumes of wine lore and some dusty portraits of great imbibers of the past. (Only a laptop on the ancient school-mastery desk giving any clue as to the advent of the current century.)
Sir being asked if Sir required assistance, Sir was happy to respond that a half a dozen of 'glasses, red, wine for the purpose of' would suffice. (The same half dozen one had purchased nigh on twenty-five years ago now showing some signs of wear.)
Some small talk then ensued on the matter of 'mailing lists'. A certain recollection of the records confirming one was not excised merely inoperative; a due murmured apology offered, dismissed with ready acknowledgement of one's own part in the sundering of relationships. All matter of distance swept away in a trice. Two Englishmen - well actually he sounded French, but was an honorary Englishman for the purpose of the moment - near to emotional effusion at the very delight of it all.
One left with spirits high and glasses in tow. All seemed suddenly rather sunny.
Oh but then! What comes with the morning post? An announcement that henceforth this very sound establishment would being vending its house wine in 'screw-top' bottles!
This is not so much 'off to Hell in a hand-cart' as the modern idiom would have it. This is arrival at the very portal of the Inferno knocking most earnestly for entry! (Dear, deluded yet essentially sound Colonel Kurtz nailed it when he spoke so movingly of "The Horror, the Horror.")
Take that on account!
Thursday, March 08, 2007
You're Knicked..
La Comédie Humaine
The ingenuity of the human kind - male mostly - to land itself in the hot murky waters of sex and the law knows few bounds. It being many years since I read the whole of Balzac - do try it, he is a superb reader of souls - I cannot recall whether he ever pitched up with a 'pantie thief disguised as an elf' character. Bet he wish he had have done!
We have, mercifully, by and large been spared the uncomfortableness of sharing our village life with persons of an inclination to warped sexualised behaviour in public. In private, perhaps so - indeed assuredly so, though that is strictly a matter for the confessional where it shall remain - but public displays of without the norm activity have been rare.
It was suggested by some that Old Tom used to employ his night hours not so much in poaching as in peeping, but I'm inclined to the view of many that this was just an ugly rumour put round by Colonel X in a vain attempt to shame Tom into remaining indoors, thus preserving the Colonel's pheasants until they were ready to be properly shot as God intended. (Colonel X's view of the purpose of being a pheasant, not mine.)
Then there was Q, a Church organist for some years. Q's views that choir boys were 'God's little seraphs' was considered dangerous by some, though again the majority opinion prevailing was that Q was merely terribly ill-informed as to the naturally horrific nature of boys. (Someone once gave Q a copy of 'Lord of the Flies' for Christmas, which struck me as a little cruel.) Eyes were kept posted for signs of misconduct, though all that was ever reported was Q beaming as the boys sang. Sadly one year not long ago Q fell off a cliff whilst on holiday bird-watching on Orkney, so that was the end of him and of that.
The nearest one has ever come oneself to any such desperate scandal - far from, yet quite close enough thank you! - was on an occasion H and I were returning from a foreign holiday. (Nowadays of course one has E and E's horse so one doesn't have foreign holidays, but then we had neither so we did.)
The holiday itself was grand - a small Greek island that could have tempted me to turn Orthodox and stay forever. H's objection that she wouldn't care to see me in a long full beard sadly held sway and we returned by night flight as one does.
Safely landed and disembarked we waited, again as one does, for our luggage to duly arrive too. (Always of course an anxious moment until confirmed that one's suitcases had boarded the same flight as oneself.) H stood one side of the carousel and I the other. Spotting her case I grabbed it, yelled at her to retrieve mine and legged it towards Customs. (You can tell all this happened so long ago. There were actually officers of Her Majesty's Customs and Excise waiting to grill every last one of us should they so choose.)
They chose me for some strange reason. Must have looked deeply suspicious no doubt with deep tan and dog collar - a well-known disguise for the criminal I am sure. Anyways they hauled me over and began quizzing. "Where had Sir been?" "What had been the purpose of Sir's visit?" "Did Sir have anything to declare?"
Resisting wisely the urge to respond to the last with 'three bottles of ouzo and my genius' straight answers were at once given. Sadly though I must have been utterly unconvincing as we finally reached the clincher "Is that Sir's suitcase?"
Well what a dilemma! To own that no in fact it was not mine but another's - albeit my wife's - would have led to hours of endless probing (swift and painful visions of body searching flashing across my very tired and now troubled mind!) To falsely claim it for my own would be a lie. Not in itself a good thing, but in the circumstances the better of two bad options. So I lied and said yes most assurredly the suitcase lying between ourselves was indeed my very own personal property and possession.
From the corner of my eye I could see H hovering close by looking flustered and furious - whether with C&E or with me I could not tell. But swift as ever H had anticipated where all this would be leading and was not about to be best pleased. With due reason it proved.
"Did Sir pack Sir's own case?" came the next line of questioning. Having begun the lie there was no choice but to continue it to the end. Yes indeed of course one had done one's own packing, one was not a complete nitwit! The ascerbic touch of that response was not, in hindsight, the tactically correct approach. H was by now wincing as well as looking flustered and furious. Scared me rigid that combination, though water off a duck's back to phlegmatic, stern, meritricious C&E of course.
"Would Sir mind opening Sir's suitcase?" Well suddenly Sir saw just how deep in the mire Sir was. To refuse was out of the question. To comply courted disaster. One therefore complied and disaster duly followed. Out came H's clothing - her day and evening wear (rather fetching frocks all), her beach wear (one piece numbers mostly but the odd bikini too) and finally the underwear of delicate hues and a variety of designs. (Though being before the advent of the thong there were garments of a certain daring nature. Pleasing in any other circumstance, but deeply galling in this.)
Not one word, not one smirk, passed the lips of C&E. Not even a solitary sparkle in the eye. (If Sir wished to be a cleric within the Church of England yet also a full-on transvestite that was entirely Sir's business and no concern of Her Majesty, was clearly the awful line they were taking.) Just each item held aloft for far more moments than was in any way called for for the purpose of seeking contraband. H the meanwhile was incandescent, fit to explode, yet not daring to intervene. No woman wants her 'smalls' to be so publicly flaunted by a state official for the titillation of said state official's colleagues and the humiliation of said woman's husband. (On reflection though, perhaps the humiliation of husband angle was not something she so much minded, that being condign punishment for foolish fellow having allowed the whole sorry event to occur in the first place.)
The torment finally over and all garments safely restored, Sir was cursorily dismissed as if nothing untoward had passed between State and subject. Not a good end to the otherwise blameless and enjoyable holiday. H said nothing about the matter - indeed spoke not a word on the whole journey home, which was deeply troubling.
H indeed never once referred to the matter, day passing day with no comment at all. Shortly after, however, I discovered that - so sadly - she had mixed my very own, largely white, underpants with a garish red shirt purchased in Greece whilst doing the domestic laundry, with the result that everything white became at once forever deep pink.
Hell, it would seem, has little fury to compare with that of a woman whose lingerie has been subject to unauthorised public inspection!
The ingenuity of the human kind - male mostly - to land itself in the hot murky waters of sex and the law knows few bounds. It being many years since I read the whole of Balzac - do try it, he is a superb reader of souls - I cannot recall whether he ever pitched up with a 'pantie thief disguised as an elf' character. Bet he wish he had have done!
We have, mercifully, by and large been spared the uncomfortableness of sharing our village life with persons of an inclination to warped sexualised behaviour in public. In private, perhaps so - indeed assuredly so, though that is strictly a matter for the confessional where it shall remain - but public displays of without the norm activity have been rare.
It was suggested by some that Old Tom used to employ his night hours not so much in poaching as in peeping, but I'm inclined to the view of many that this was just an ugly rumour put round by Colonel X in a vain attempt to shame Tom into remaining indoors, thus preserving the Colonel's pheasants until they were ready to be properly shot as God intended. (Colonel X's view of the purpose of being a pheasant, not mine.)
Then there was Q, a Church organist for some years. Q's views that choir boys were 'God's little seraphs' was considered dangerous by some, though again the majority opinion prevailing was that Q was merely terribly ill-informed as to the naturally horrific nature of boys. (Someone once gave Q a copy of 'Lord of the Flies' for Christmas, which struck me as a little cruel.) Eyes were kept posted for signs of misconduct, though all that was ever reported was Q beaming as the boys sang. Sadly one year not long ago Q fell off a cliff whilst on holiday bird-watching on Orkney, so that was the end of him and of that.
The nearest one has ever come oneself to any such desperate scandal - far from, yet quite close enough thank you! - was on an occasion H and I were returning from a foreign holiday. (Nowadays of course one has E and E's horse so one doesn't have foreign holidays, but then we had neither so we did.)
The holiday itself was grand - a small Greek island that could have tempted me to turn Orthodox and stay forever. H's objection that she wouldn't care to see me in a long full beard sadly held sway and we returned by night flight as one does.
Safely landed and disembarked we waited, again as one does, for our luggage to duly arrive too. (Always of course an anxious moment until confirmed that one's suitcases had boarded the same flight as oneself.) H stood one side of the carousel and I the other. Spotting her case I grabbed it, yelled at her to retrieve mine and legged it towards Customs. (You can tell all this happened so long ago. There were actually officers of Her Majesty's Customs and Excise waiting to grill every last one of us should they so choose.)
They chose me for some strange reason. Must have looked deeply suspicious no doubt with deep tan and dog collar - a well-known disguise for the criminal I am sure. Anyways they hauled me over and began quizzing. "Where had Sir been?" "What had been the purpose of Sir's visit?" "Did Sir have anything to declare?"
Resisting wisely the urge to respond to the last with 'three bottles of ouzo and my genius' straight answers were at once given. Sadly though I must have been utterly unconvincing as we finally reached the clincher "Is that Sir's suitcase?"
Well what a dilemma! To own that no in fact it was not mine but another's - albeit my wife's - would have led to hours of endless probing (swift and painful visions of body searching flashing across my very tired and now troubled mind!) To falsely claim it for my own would be a lie. Not in itself a good thing, but in the circumstances the better of two bad options. So I lied and said yes most assurredly the suitcase lying between ourselves was indeed my very own personal property and possession.
From the corner of my eye I could see H hovering close by looking flustered and furious - whether with C&E or with me I could not tell. But swift as ever H had anticipated where all this would be leading and was not about to be best pleased. With due reason it proved.
"Did Sir pack Sir's own case?" came the next line of questioning. Having begun the lie there was no choice but to continue it to the end. Yes indeed of course one had done one's own packing, one was not a complete nitwit! The ascerbic touch of that response was not, in hindsight, the tactically correct approach. H was by now wincing as well as looking flustered and furious. Scared me rigid that combination, though water off a duck's back to phlegmatic, stern, meritricious C&E of course.
"Would Sir mind opening Sir's suitcase?" Well suddenly Sir saw just how deep in the mire Sir was. To refuse was out of the question. To comply courted disaster. One therefore complied and disaster duly followed. Out came H's clothing - her day and evening wear (rather fetching frocks all), her beach wear (one piece numbers mostly but the odd bikini too) and finally the underwear of delicate hues and a variety of designs. (Though being before the advent of the thong there were garments of a certain daring nature. Pleasing in any other circumstance, but deeply galling in this.)
Not one word, not one smirk, passed the lips of C&E. Not even a solitary sparkle in the eye. (If Sir wished to be a cleric within the Church of England yet also a full-on transvestite that was entirely Sir's business and no concern of Her Majesty, was clearly the awful line they were taking.) Just each item held aloft for far more moments than was in any way called for for the purpose of seeking contraband. H the meanwhile was incandescent, fit to explode, yet not daring to intervene. No woman wants her 'smalls' to be so publicly flaunted by a state official for the titillation of said state official's colleagues and the humiliation of said woman's husband. (On reflection though, perhaps the humiliation of husband angle was not something she so much minded, that being condign punishment for foolish fellow having allowed the whole sorry event to occur in the first place.)
The torment finally over and all garments safely restored, Sir was cursorily dismissed as if nothing untoward had passed between State and subject. Not a good end to the otherwise blameless and enjoyable holiday. H said nothing about the matter - indeed spoke not a word on the whole journey home, which was deeply troubling.
H indeed never once referred to the matter, day passing day with no comment at all. Shortly after, however, I discovered that - so sadly - she had mixed my very own, largely white, underpants with a garish red shirt purchased in Greece whilst doing the domestic laundry, with the result that everything white became at once forever deep pink.
Hell, it would seem, has little fury to compare with that of a woman whose lingerie has been subject to unauthorised public inspection!
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
"Darling You Shouldn't Have..."
H, though pleased and expectant to receive customary gifts for formal occasions as birthdays or anniversaries, generally takes a dim view of any other more informal offerings.
As so many women of her type - i.e. women in general - H will either find fault with the thing itself as being 'too large', 'too red', 'too last year' etc., etc., or else suspect the worst.
Flattering - if false - to be thought capable of seeking to hide the proverbial lipstick on the dog collar behind a clutched bunch of flowers, it is somewhat lowering to be thus silently challenged when merely wishing to express some spontaneous token of affection for the lawful spouse.
Admittedly one is forced to accept that there has been the odd moment when one has sought to pass off as a 'present' a jar or dozen of simply poisonous damson jam from a grateful, if culinary-challenged, parishioner. But beyond that nothing untoward.
At least, though, I can reasonably claim that even if the new side table for the hall is too large, the paint to do the bathroom too red, or the smart frock too last year - even given all of that there is generally some obvious rationale of gift between eager giver and uncertain recipient that would easily be spotted by some neutral third-party analyst.
What third-party analyst though could possibly make sense of this? An American doctor has just been gaoled for severing a hand from a corpse. No bog-standard cadaver molester however this fellow. When challenged as to why he had done it he replied "I wanted something to give to a stripper to impress her."
He thought - on spec - that she just might want a severed hand as an impressive surprise? She intimated to him that a severed hand would be just the ticket for her? Neither proposition bears much scrutiny - in entirely the sense that one simply doesn't wish to believe either is humanly plausible.
(Actually, of course, had he pulled it off - as it were - I can guarantee she would have responded "But darling we've all the hands we need for the new flat. Feet! Bring me feet!")
As so many women of her type - i.e. women in general - H will either find fault with the thing itself as being 'too large', 'too red', 'too last year' etc., etc., or else suspect the worst.
Flattering - if false - to be thought capable of seeking to hide the proverbial lipstick on the dog collar behind a clutched bunch of flowers, it is somewhat lowering to be thus silently challenged when merely wishing to express some spontaneous token of affection for the lawful spouse.
Admittedly one is forced to accept that there has been the odd moment when one has sought to pass off as a 'present' a jar or dozen of simply poisonous damson jam from a grateful, if culinary-challenged, parishioner. But beyond that nothing untoward.
At least, though, I can reasonably claim that even if the new side table for the hall is too large, the paint to do the bathroom too red, or the smart frock too last year - even given all of that there is generally some obvious rationale of gift between eager giver and uncertain recipient that would easily be spotted by some neutral third-party analyst.
What third-party analyst though could possibly make sense of this? An American doctor has just been gaoled for severing a hand from a corpse. No bog-standard cadaver molester however this fellow. When challenged as to why he had done it he replied "I wanted something to give to a stripper to impress her."
He thought - on spec - that she just might want a severed hand as an impressive surprise? She intimated to him that a severed hand would be just the ticket for her? Neither proposition bears much scrutiny - in entirely the sense that one simply doesn't wish to believe either is humanly plausible.
(Actually, of course, had he pulled it off - as it were - I can guarantee she would have responded "But darling we've all the hands we need for the new flat. Feet! Bring me feet!")
Saturday, March 03, 2007
Pink Moon...
I saw it written and I saw it say,
Pink moon is on its way.
None of you stand so tall,
Pink moon gonna get you all.
Yea it's a pink moon;
Pink, pink, pink, pink, pink moon.
- Nick Drake [1948-1974]
Pink moon is on its way.
None of you stand so tall,
Pink moon gonna get you all.
Yea it's a pink moon;
Pink, pink, pink, pink, pink moon.
- Nick Drake [1948-1974]
The Vanity Of The Preacher...
"Vanity, all is vanity saith the preacher" ...somewhere in Ecclesiastes I think you'll find. True enough by and large, though speaking as one preacher to another it's a bit rich for a public proponent of all that is righteous to be banging on about the vanity of others.
A certain vanity - it must be owned tonight - has been the cause of a recent very downfall of this particular preacher fellow. Nothing scandalous or lurid I must haste to add - just pride in personal appearance leading to something rather humbling.
Has been the habit for more than twenty years to be a DIY barber: ever since the hairline began receding as the tide, one has merely used self-administered clippers to trim the thatch as so much indoor lawnmowing.
On a whim - no more - one decided [See previous] to permit the professional blade to skim across the scalp the other weekend.
There was a time one would have paid top dollar for a Sex God cut, but these days all one would and did ask for was something vaguely stylish. Sadly though even that proved to be beyond the reach of the salon. That being my judgement anyways - having shelled out half a week's stipend one was less than impressed by the lop-sided outcome.
Returning home - howsoever much impressed by one's encounter with the charming Miss A [American Beauty] - the troubled, vain self at once reached for the customary clippers to rectify the failings.
In principle a sound thing, but in practice a disaster. Being somewhat irate at having spent so much for so little I failed - a bad, bad failing - to check that the clipper guard was securely fixed. Off then suddenly it pinged just as I was mowing the back end.
The wretched outcome was a naked graze from neck to crown. Wondrously amusing to any third party, but deeply, deeply wounding for oneself.
No option was then open other than to shave the rest of the skull in a 'demi-Britney', hoping thereby to hide the bare scalp yet still having to wear a hat for the duration until sufficient hair had regrown to cover the gaping gap.
A 'bad hair day' most certainly, but one awfully helpful in quelling any preacherly vanity.
A certain vanity - it must be owned tonight - has been the cause of a recent very downfall of this particular preacher fellow. Nothing scandalous or lurid I must haste to add - just pride in personal appearance leading to something rather humbling.
Has been the habit for more than twenty years to be a DIY barber: ever since the hairline began receding as the tide, one has merely used self-administered clippers to trim the thatch as so much indoor lawnmowing.
On a whim - no more - one decided [See previous] to permit the professional blade to skim across the scalp the other weekend.
There was a time one would have paid top dollar for a Sex God cut, but these days all one would and did ask for was something vaguely stylish. Sadly though even that proved to be beyond the reach of the salon. That being my judgement anyways - having shelled out half a week's stipend one was less than impressed by the lop-sided outcome.
Returning home - howsoever much impressed by one's encounter with the charming Miss A [American Beauty] - the troubled, vain self at once reached for the customary clippers to rectify the failings.
In principle a sound thing, but in practice a disaster. Being somewhat irate at having spent so much for so little I failed - a bad, bad failing - to check that the clipper guard was securely fixed. Off then suddenly it pinged just as I was mowing the back end.
The wretched outcome was a naked graze from neck to crown. Wondrously amusing to any third party, but deeply, deeply wounding for oneself.
No option was then open other than to shave the rest of the skull in a 'demi-Britney', hoping thereby to hide the bare scalp yet still having to wear a hat for the duration until sufficient hair had regrown to cover the gaping gap.
A 'bad hair day' most certainly, but one awfully helpful in quelling any preacherly vanity.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Sixteen Up...
...Just after midnight sixteen years ago E was born.
And what a time we had of it. A late birth, after days of fruitless induction sudden signs of foetal distress and straight into theatre for an emergency Ceasarean. Fortunate therefore that neither H nor I had been heavy on the whole 'birth plan' thing.
Not for us Tibetan birthing rugs woven from virgin yak's wool, with scented Aztec candles and soothing music culled from Polynesian folklore. (Never quite understood why Western minds have to graze so far afield in search of spiritual nourishment. Perhaps whatever we have had to contribute to the world's store of 'soul food' has been buried too long under mountains of cultural junk. It is there, but we can't see it or search for it.)
That we even managed to get as far as unplanned surgery (no ideal way to begin motherhood) was not in slight part owing to yours truly. Not the most assertive of personages, nonetheless the sight of a hapless midwife struggling to plug in a monitor or using her fingers to try and calculate the time on a twenty-four hour clock was enough, in these most urgent of circumstances, to shoot oneself straight to the doctor's station and demand the wretched woman be removed from duty and some properly qualified and competent personage to attend pronto.
Just as frigging well I did, for once said q & c doctor did attend to take some proper readings it transpired that E was in deep distress and possibly on the verge of something catastrophic. The Ceasarean did finally confirm this: silly baby - not her fault of course - had managed to wrap the umbilical cord round her neck.
Now 'E' is not her proper name - due discretion keeps that from the prying noses of cyberworld. The true birthname that she bears had, funnily enough, been chosen even before her conception. Odd possibly, but H and I had fallen on names for 'baby' whether boy or girl whilst one day walking in the hills of the Peak District. On that day there was merely the hoped for intention of becoming parents in some not far distant time. There would be RML for a girl and SJB for a boy.
Well E (or let us call her R) is a Hebrew name meaning 'knotted cord'. So appropriate of course as it turned out to the circumstances of her birth. Clever child it would seem to be so in touch with her destiny.
This 'baby' is suddenly now of an age when she could lawfully learn to fly a glider (nope!), buy a winning lottery ticket (yes per-lease!), join the Armed Forces (not likely) or even get married with parental consent (no frigging chance!!)
Where did the years go? Happy Sixteenth darling daughter.
And what a time we had of it. A late birth, after days of fruitless induction sudden signs of foetal distress and straight into theatre for an emergency Ceasarean. Fortunate therefore that neither H nor I had been heavy on the whole 'birth plan' thing.
Not for us Tibetan birthing rugs woven from virgin yak's wool, with scented Aztec candles and soothing music culled from Polynesian folklore. (Never quite understood why Western minds have to graze so far afield in search of spiritual nourishment. Perhaps whatever we have had to contribute to the world's store of 'soul food' has been buried too long under mountains of cultural junk. It is there, but we can't see it or search for it.)
That we even managed to get as far as unplanned surgery (no ideal way to begin motherhood) was not in slight part owing to yours truly. Not the most assertive of personages, nonetheless the sight of a hapless midwife struggling to plug in a monitor or using her fingers to try and calculate the time on a twenty-four hour clock was enough, in these most urgent of circumstances, to shoot oneself straight to the doctor's station and demand the wretched woman be removed from duty and some properly qualified and competent personage to attend pronto.
Just as frigging well I did, for once said q & c doctor did attend to take some proper readings it transpired that E was in deep distress and possibly on the verge of something catastrophic. The Ceasarean did finally confirm this: silly baby - not her fault of course - had managed to wrap the umbilical cord round her neck.
Now 'E' is not her proper name - due discretion keeps that from the prying noses of cyberworld. The true birthname that she bears had, funnily enough, been chosen even before her conception. Odd possibly, but H and I had fallen on names for 'baby' whether boy or girl whilst one day walking in the hills of the Peak District. On that day there was merely the hoped for intention of becoming parents in some not far distant time. There would be RML for a girl and SJB for a boy.
Well E (or let us call her R) is a Hebrew name meaning 'knotted cord'. So appropriate of course as it turned out to the circumstances of her birth. Clever child it would seem to be so in touch with her destiny.
This 'baby' is suddenly now of an age when she could lawfully learn to fly a glider (nope!), buy a winning lottery ticket (yes per-lease!), join the Armed Forces (not likely) or even get married with parental consent (no frigging chance!!)
Where did the years go? Happy Sixteenth darling daughter.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Not Waving But Drowning...
...This just in from Bro. George, toiling as he ever does to keep afloat on the never-diminishing flood of command and control that our country's Great Leaders persist in swamping the weary, dazed, half-drowned world of public services with.
For it seems that some two years ago we - this great nation - were singularly blessed by the passing of an Act of Parliament, namely the 'Mental Capacity Act 2005'. (Have to say the whole thing passed my by; no doubt a terrible failing of my own cerebral capacity. H, though, similarly had not heard of it which was reassuring - not as in H must be gaga too, but rather as in had the thing been of note she would have noted the thing.)
For it seems that some two years ago we - this great nation - were singularly blessed by the passing of an Act of Parliament, namely the 'Mental Capacity Act 2005'. (Have to say the whole thing passed my by; no doubt a terrible failing of my own cerebral capacity. H, though, similarly had not heard of it which was reassuring - not as in H must be gaga too, but rather as in had the thing been of note she would have noted the thing.)
The Act is - we are reliably informed by Bro. George - pretty momentous stuff with the potential to affect any poor sap whose marbles begin to drop out of the bag at some point. The whole motley crew then it must be owned, at some point.
It has taken a whole seventeen years from first report to final act - a measure indeed of the complexity of the matters under consideration. All of course dealt with happily by common and case law until now, but you know these New Labour bods - never more sunny than when passing an Act of Parliament to prescribe ever more closely how our lives are to be lived. Bless 'em. (Or hang 'em if you'd prefer. You won't find this meek parson complaining.)
At best the new statute might serve to protect such as lose the capacity to protest "Hang on a minute there, that's not what I want to happen in the slightest thank you very much." (A useful attribute you'll agree should any sawbones be thinking of hacking off a limb and shilly-shallying as to whether he might or he might not.)
At worst though it could give 'them' - including said sawbones - wide and near uninhibited licence to do what they please with us, in what is very loosely defined as our 'best interests'.
You'll not be entirely surprised to learn that both Bro. George and I sit on the more gloomy end of the line of thought. If a power exists it is used. And if a power is used it is inevitably at some point, by at least some coves, misused.
Be that as it may, and setting aside Orwellian fears that we could all be banged up for wrong thinking, he and I are loadly chuckling not moaning this evening.
And why so indeed?
For the very and single fact that, to accompany this Act - a nautical chart to plot the way through these deep waters - the beloved Dept. of Constitutional Affairs has produced a necessary and fulsome 'Code of Practice'.
That is amusing, you reasonably ask. Well no, not as such. What though has loosed the jowls of mirth is that when the Dept of Con. Aff. produced a draft version last year, a universal response was along the lines of "Great stuff chaps. Darn good page-turner and all that. But a bit on the long side at over 180 pages, what?"
Never one to cop a deaf 'un, the Con. Aff. folk agreed to go away and have another go. Which of course dutifully they have done. Trouble is, whilst they were engaged in a pruning exercise, along came another bunch of folk (many of whom would also have been found protesting the length of the thing) with scores, nay volumes of comment, concern, correction, debate and discussion - all being worthy of consideration by the Con. Aff. mob. "What about this case - you've not dealt with it properly," they were told. Or much "You've mentioned this, but not said how it relates to that." Or plenty of "This is frankly crazy. You must do better!"
Poor Con. Aff. boys and girls probably wished they'd never signed up for the task in the first place. But battle on they did, scribble away they have, until finally this week it is announced that the 184 page draft Code of Practice has been swept away with the tide to be replaced by the wonderful new, final Code.........THREE HUNDRED AND TWO pages long! (It weighs in - literally - at three and a half pounds, for those who prefer their numbers by mass.)
You have to sob with merriment. Truly you do. Especially if like Bro. George it's your paid occupation to read, understand and communicate the thing to the breath-bated waiting horde of health and social care professionals, who are now duty bound by law to put the 'practice' into the Code of P.
Oh and by the way, don't think you lot are exempt because your profession is other. This is Statute Law baby - it applies to every person in the land. So get reading!
PS - And why the two long years between passing and enacting the law?
Because - they said - it is so vast, so complex and so profound we needed two years preparation in order to have everything ready to go with one Big Bang in April this year.
Well, that's what they said in November last year. Only, in December they then quietly announced that they wouldn't be ready in time, so would we all mind very much if some of it came into effect in April and the rest in October? (The smart money is on a further six month's delay to be announced in July.)
Laugh? Why of course. What else is a man to do?
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Sweet Molly..
...One's absence from this spot these past few days has not been some self-imposed Lenten penance (that by and large being encompassed by the sundering of self from alcohol for the duration), but rather an inability - not yet fully overcome - to put into words an event occurring at the very beginning of it all on the very Ash Wednesday.
As previously mentioned [See previous naturally], Robin's dictum about the unexpected twist being the real deal of the season hit home all too soon.
Lent properly encourages a radical review of existence, self, life, God, purpose, sin and redemption: the whole darn Xtian thing in fact. One's own sense of one's place in this scheme of things is never these days unaffected by having lived - and great thanks for the living of it - with a life-threatening illness [See much previous on sarcoma] these past six years. Not exactly an ever-present Damoclesian sword hanging over the head, more perhaps an enduring perspective that informs so much.
An aspect of that perspective has always been a sort of selfishness in that I grasp this thing to myself because I could not stand it if it had happened to another - especially someone close to me. It is my dread thing and I would not have it any other way.
But I have known too so many others who have not just lived with it but who have also died from it, and these are not all adults. I have been close to many mourning parents via Internet support groups and never is there a harder moment than opening - and seeking to respond to - that post that comes with news of a dear child's death. (I speak only as a reader - what can that moment by like for the bereaved parent who settles to write such a message?)
On Wednesday evening - I knew it was coming - there was a television programme called 'One in a Million' about two children with potentially fatal illnesses who were being treated at Great Ormond Street Hospital. From the pre-broadcast information it seemed all too likely that one of the children featured had an illness either the same as or comparable in process and effect to my own - it turned out the latter. But worse - it was a given that for one of the two the programme would end with bad news. I knew what that news would be and sadly I was right.
How can one watch such a programme knowing in advance that for one set of fearful, tearful, desperate parents the outcome would be the worst it could be? With that knowledge I very nearly couldn't, but I did.
One of the two was sweet Molly, aged just four years old. She had Wilm's tumour - an effect of pre-natal kidney cells that somehow genetically forgot to turn themselves off having first helped to shape the kidney in the womb. The result was a catastrophe of malignancy that had spread to great lumps in her lungs - her 'baddies' as she called them.
GOSH were not optimistic when they viewed these lumps on a PET scan. One was close to the heart, all three could be life-threatening if left alone; but then also surgery itself could be a killer if it went wrong. The scan only indicated what was to be faced by the surgeon. He would only know what to do for the best when Molly was on the operating table and under the knife. There would almost certainly have to be a balance between seeking to excise the whole of the tumours and risking an internal injury that could prove fatal.
Molly was wonderful throughout. Pert and bright - a natural for the cameras - dancing, skipping, playing, chatting with such glee about all and anything. Her mother - pregnant with her sister-to-be - wept as she narrated that Molly had told her she was glad there was another child coming, as that would be a comfort for her mother when she was gone away and that she (Molly) would always be looking after them from that far place. Molly was just four years old. Consider that and the wisdom and compassion of one so young.
Molly was also - as E was at that age - a complete 'Daddy's girl', so it was Dad who had to read her stories as she lay inside the scary PET machine and it was Dad who had to carry her, crying with fear, into the operating theatre. He too wept - not at those moments because he had to be strong for her - and this Dad wept too at what that must be like to endure.
Surgery - shown in all detail - was a far greater success than could have been expected. Not only were two of the tumours - including the one close to the heart - fully excised, but also later the parents were told that the histology was benign. No promises for the future, but at that moment great joy. Molly might live.
But she didn't. We last saw her on her first day at primary school. A big hug for the anxious Mum from the Headteacher and, as ever, a special Molly moment: she was yes thank you looking forward to school because she wanted to "learn to stand on my hands!"
Then that epitaph the whole programme had been anticipating: school was in August, by Boxing Day Molly was ill once more with new tumours and before the year was out she died, peacefully in her sleep at 3.00 a.m. on December 30th 2006.
Not two months later we were watching this all on television, a final brave - and it was brave - public farewell and tribute by her parents to her great life, and a thank you for the doctors and nurses who had tried to save her life.
May her dear soul rest in peace and may her grieving parents be comforted in their great loss.
...Those are the best words that I can find to express why the words are so hard to find.
These are other words, the closing words of T. S. Eliot's poem for the day 'Ash Wednesday'. Let the last speak for all.
"Although I do not hope to turn again
Although I do not hope
Although I do not hope to turn
Wavering between the profit and the loss
In this brief transit where the dreams cross
The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying,
(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things
From the wide window towards the granite shore
The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying
Unbroken wings.
And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell,
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover,
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth.
This is the time of tension between dying and birth
The place of solitude where three dreams cross
Between blue rocks,
But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away
Let the other yew be shaken and reply.
Blessèd sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood.
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will.
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated.
And let my cry come unto Thee."
As previously mentioned [See previous naturally], Robin's dictum about the unexpected twist being the real deal of the season hit home all too soon.
Lent properly encourages a radical review of existence, self, life, God, purpose, sin and redemption: the whole darn Xtian thing in fact. One's own sense of one's place in this scheme of things is never these days unaffected by having lived - and great thanks for the living of it - with a life-threatening illness [See much previous on sarcoma] these past six years. Not exactly an ever-present Damoclesian sword hanging over the head, more perhaps an enduring perspective that informs so much.
An aspect of that perspective has always been a sort of selfishness in that I grasp this thing to myself because I could not stand it if it had happened to another - especially someone close to me. It is my dread thing and I would not have it any other way.
But I have known too so many others who have not just lived with it but who have also died from it, and these are not all adults. I have been close to many mourning parents via Internet support groups and never is there a harder moment than opening - and seeking to respond to - that post that comes with news of a dear child's death. (I speak only as a reader - what can that moment by like for the bereaved parent who settles to write such a message?)
On Wednesday evening - I knew it was coming - there was a television programme called 'One in a Million' about two children with potentially fatal illnesses who were being treated at Great Ormond Street Hospital. From the pre-broadcast information it seemed all too likely that one of the children featured had an illness either the same as or comparable in process and effect to my own - it turned out the latter. But worse - it was a given that for one of the two the programme would end with bad news. I knew what that news would be and sadly I was right.
How can one watch such a programme knowing in advance that for one set of fearful, tearful, desperate parents the outcome would be the worst it could be? With that knowledge I very nearly couldn't, but I did.
One of the two was sweet Molly, aged just four years old. She had Wilm's tumour - an effect of pre-natal kidney cells that somehow genetically forgot to turn themselves off having first helped to shape the kidney in the womb. The result was a catastrophe of malignancy that had spread to great lumps in her lungs - her 'baddies' as she called them.
GOSH were not optimistic when they viewed these lumps on a PET scan. One was close to the heart, all three could be life-threatening if left alone; but then also surgery itself could be a killer if it went wrong. The scan only indicated what was to be faced by the surgeon. He would only know what to do for the best when Molly was on the operating table and under the knife. There would almost certainly have to be a balance between seeking to excise the whole of the tumours and risking an internal injury that could prove fatal.
Molly was wonderful throughout. Pert and bright - a natural for the cameras - dancing, skipping, playing, chatting with such glee about all and anything. Her mother - pregnant with her sister-to-be - wept as she narrated that Molly had told her she was glad there was another child coming, as that would be a comfort for her mother when she was gone away and that she (Molly) would always be looking after them from that far place. Molly was just four years old. Consider that and the wisdom and compassion of one so young.
Molly was also - as E was at that age - a complete 'Daddy's girl', so it was Dad who had to read her stories as she lay inside the scary PET machine and it was Dad who had to carry her, crying with fear, into the operating theatre. He too wept - not at those moments because he had to be strong for her - and this Dad wept too at what that must be like to endure.
Surgery - shown in all detail - was a far greater success than could have been expected. Not only were two of the tumours - including the one close to the heart - fully excised, but also later the parents were told that the histology was benign. No promises for the future, but at that moment great joy. Molly might live.
But she didn't. We last saw her on her first day at primary school. A big hug for the anxious Mum from the Headteacher and, as ever, a special Molly moment: she was yes thank you looking forward to school because she wanted to "learn to stand on my hands!"
Then that epitaph the whole programme had been anticipating: school was in August, by Boxing Day Molly was ill once more with new tumours and before the year was out she died, peacefully in her sleep at 3.00 a.m. on December 30th 2006.
Not two months later we were watching this all on television, a final brave - and it was brave - public farewell and tribute by her parents to her great life, and a thank you for the doctors and nurses who had tried to save her life.
May her dear soul rest in peace and may her grieving parents be comforted in their great loss.
...Those are the best words that I can find to express why the words are so hard to find.
These are other words, the closing words of T. S. Eliot's poem for the day 'Ash Wednesday'. Let the last speak for all.
"Although I do not hope to turn again
Although I do not hope
Although I do not hope to turn
Wavering between the profit and the loss
In this brief transit where the dreams cross
The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying,
(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things
From the wide window towards the granite shore
The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying
Unbroken wings.
And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell,
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover,
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth.
This is the time of tension between dying and birth
The place of solitude where three dreams cross
Between blue rocks,
But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away
Let the other yew be shaken and reply.
Blessèd sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood.
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will.
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated.
And let my cry come unto Thee."
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Fat Tuesday...
...or 'Mardi Gras' - as it is often known in more exotic climes - is upon us once more. All fatty food - the eggs, the butter, the cheese, the favourite marmalade [Frank Cooper's Vintage if you're asking] etc., etc., - to be consumed in one great, multi-layered feast, leaving the stomach somewhat bloated and the larder reduced to bare essentials.
Not of course how it tends to happen in practice, though pancakes are a reasonable symbolic offering in compensation.
Also of course Carnival Day. Could never understand why London should think August is the time for carnival - completely unliturgical!
And why 'carnival' today? Carne valle - 'farewell meat' of course! Not that one tends to do that either in total. (Whisper it not in Babylon, but even my old monastery did not dispense entirely with meat for the whole season!)
Faced with forty days of fasting I have to own that one wishes one could be like the lion and gorge oneself sufficient to last the time through. But sadly humans are not built that way. And more sadly, this particular human has a dodgy tummy [enough information] today and will therefore, perforce, be anticipating the fast by one day.
Nothing like a bit of practice before the off!
Not of course how it tends to happen in practice, though pancakes are a reasonable symbolic offering in compensation.
Also of course Carnival Day. Could never understand why London should think August is the time for carnival - completely unliturgical!
And why 'carnival' today? Carne valle - 'farewell meat' of course! Not that one tends to do that either in total. (Whisper it not in Babylon, but even my old monastery did not dispense entirely with meat for the whole season!)
Faced with forty days of fasting I have to own that one wishes one could be like the lion and gorge oneself sufficient to last the time through. But sadly humans are not built that way. And more sadly, this particular human has a dodgy tummy [enough information] today and will therefore, perforce, be anticipating the fast by one day.
Nothing like a bit of practice before the off!
Monday, February 19, 2007
A Simple Twist of Fate...
...My late Abbot had many blessings that were apparent in his demeanour, temperament and spirituality. Being though half-German, a sense of humour was not one of them.
It was our custom at the beginning of the season of Lent for each monk to present to the Abbot a letter outlining his intended abstinences above and beyond those striped-down for the whole community.
As these latter were fairly rigorous in any case, younger monks were required to restrain from attempting anything too glorious - or indeed vainglorious - on top of the house norm. ('Singularity' is, perhaps, the worst of all that a monk living in community can be known for.)
My own offering, therefore, was modest - a commitment not to read 'The Times' for the duration, which in those days was penance enough. Father Abbot opined that such a course was indeed the beginning of the royal road to sanctity: monks should first quit the newspaper, then when sufficiently robust of spirit 'The Spectator' and finally when approaching the very gates of Heaven the 'Times Literary Supplement'.
On being asked where the Catholic in-house paper, 'The Universe', fitted into this ladder of holiness, he merely replied that he would not ever have it about the place lest it gave the brethren temptation against the Faith! (He had a strong point in those days when it was 'more Catholic than the Pope.' Sanctimonious twaddle by and large.)
The letter duly have been written I was on my way to see the old fellow, when our paths happened to cross in the cloister. "Ah, dear Dom. X. I see you have some post for me. Might I enquire what are your intended extra penances then?"
Foolish young monk as one was, with more than a dose of English whimsy, I jested - bad move - that my chosen offerings for this Lenten fast were to be quitting 'smoking and celibacy.'
Now to the right audience that would have been a cracking jape, one that would go down in the annals of local monastic legend. "Ah, dear Dom X. You remember him don't you?" they would have said in centuries to come. "How about that time he gave up smoking and celibacy for Lent? Managed it too, bless his sacred memory." And so forth.
Sadly 'twas not to be, for said half-German Abbot was not in the least minded to take the line that this was any self-aware, nay self-deprecating, sentiment on my part, with simply no intended disrespect for the great preparation of body, spirit and soul towards Eastertide.
He stared, he growled - neither a good portent. Somewhere between stalking and storming off he then went. Ooooops.
For condign punishment, later the order came: gated for a month. That is, no Thursday afternoon walks - the only time one was allowed out of the monastery grounds. Boy was that tough. Never mind forty days of no sugar with the cocoa, try thirty days of 'cabin fever.'
With then the shriving season once more upon us - H does a fine pancake I must say on the Tuesday - I shall as ever since that day refrain from sharing with anyone but the Good Lord (whose sense of humour is eternally wondrous) those particular penances to be undertaken.
And as dear, lamented Robin used to say: "It's never what you choose to happen in Lent that tests you. It is something the Lord has up his sleeve. Pray and watch therefore for a simple twist of fate." (Great Dylan fan was Robin. Jesters all.)
It was our custom at the beginning of the season of Lent for each monk to present to the Abbot a letter outlining his intended abstinences above and beyond those striped-down for the whole community.
As these latter were fairly rigorous in any case, younger monks were required to restrain from attempting anything too glorious - or indeed vainglorious - on top of the house norm. ('Singularity' is, perhaps, the worst of all that a monk living in community can be known for.)
My own offering, therefore, was modest - a commitment not to read 'The Times' for the duration, which in those days was penance enough. Father Abbot opined that such a course was indeed the beginning of the royal road to sanctity: monks should first quit the newspaper, then when sufficiently robust of spirit 'The Spectator' and finally when approaching the very gates of Heaven the 'Times Literary Supplement'.
On being asked where the Catholic in-house paper, 'The Universe', fitted into this ladder of holiness, he merely replied that he would not ever have it about the place lest it gave the brethren temptation against the Faith! (He had a strong point in those days when it was 'more Catholic than the Pope.' Sanctimonious twaddle by and large.)
The letter duly have been written I was on my way to see the old fellow, when our paths happened to cross in the cloister. "Ah, dear Dom. X. I see you have some post for me. Might I enquire what are your intended extra penances then?"
Foolish young monk as one was, with more than a dose of English whimsy, I jested - bad move - that my chosen offerings for this Lenten fast were to be quitting 'smoking and celibacy.'
Now to the right audience that would have been a cracking jape, one that would go down in the annals of local monastic legend. "Ah, dear Dom X. You remember him don't you?" they would have said in centuries to come. "How about that time he gave up smoking and celibacy for Lent? Managed it too, bless his sacred memory." And so forth.
Sadly 'twas not to be, for said half-German Abbot was not in the least minded to take the line that this was any self-aware, nay self-deprecating, sentiment on my part, with simply no intended disrespect for the great preparation of body, spirit and soul towards Eastertide.
He stared, he growled - neither a good portent. Somewhere between stalking and storming off he then went. Ooooops.
For condign punishment, later the order came: gated for a month. That is, no Thursday afternoon walks - the only time one was allowed out of the monastery grounds. Boy was that tough. Never mind forty days of no sugar with the cocoa, try thirty days of 'cabin fever.'
With then the shriving season once more upon us - H does a fine pancake I must say on the Tuesday - I shall as ever since that day refrain from sharing with anyone but the Good Lord (whose sense of humour is eternally wondrous) those particular penances to be undertaken.
And as dear, lamented Robin used to say: "It's never what you choose to happen in Lent that tests you. It is something the Lord has up his sleeve. Pray and watch therefore for a simple twist of fate." (Great Dylan fan was Robin. Jesters all.)
Sunday, February 18, 2007
'American Beauty'...
...To the true believer 'American Beauty' is the finest album the Grateful Dead ever produced. (For a true 'Deadhead' that, therefore, must make it equally the finest album ever, period, etc.) Gentle, kind, lyrical, hopeful - all this and more, somewhat sadly ironic in the present circumstances of so much London pain that it was there that Robert Hunter wrote so many of its best songs.
There would, though, be those of a later - and more musically deprived - generation who would be thinking not of the album but of the film of the same name. Funnily enough so, today, am I. For on popping over to Isaac the barber yesterday morning - Saturday an unusual day to go - I found myself having an entirely Kevin Spacey moment.
There was a 'Saturday girl' to wash the hair, a luxury my reduced crown does not need. Dispensing, therefore, courteously with her offered service I was struck by two thoughts: what an entirely and utterly attractive young woman she was, and a strong sense that perhaps she was not entirely unfamiliar.
As it does not, by and large, do for a cleric of a certain age - even one in Saturday mufti - to be accosting entirely and utterly attractive young women with the hackneyed phrase "Haven't we met somewhere before?", I said nothing and sat down to be dry-trimmed as per usual.
On rising though to pay my way - a decent if not spectacular cut having been accomplished - it struck me that if I were not wrong in my presumption of prior acquaintance then the person would have been all too familiar from days gone by.
"Are you by any chance Miss A?" I had therefore to enquire. Well, yes indeed she was and is. Miss A attended a local primary school with my own E and, for a while, E and she were closest of companions. Their paths diverging at secondary school level I had not seen Miss A more than once or twice since that time. So here now was a pretty child - as she was - turned into a simply stunning young woman.
Mutual identity being thus established - she of course at once spotting E's pa and perhaps somewhat puzzled that E's pa had not instantly spotted her - I had to offer some form of apology for not entirely recognising her at first. There really was nothing for it but to acknowledge it was her maturing into said entirely and utterly attractive young woman - without either seeming to doubt that this would have occurred or indeed that it was something on which one wished too stridently to comment - that had thrown me off the scent. Anyways, news and pleasantries were duly exchanged before I left Isaac's in continuance of the day's activities.
From dim remembrance of the film itself I am tolerably confident I shall not find myself flipping burgers for a living, nor indeed end up with a hole in the back of my head having been shot by the irate father of the obscure object of Mr. Spacey's desire.
One is though left with a firm sense that whereas 'American Beauty' qua film does not and cannot match 'American Beauty' qua album, it has moved up the hierarchy of significantly apposite and interesting cinematic experiences.
There would, though, be those of a later - and more musically deprived - generation who would be thinking not of the album but of the film of the same name. Funnily enough so, today, am I. For on popping over to Isaac the barber yesterday morning - Saturday an unusual day to go - I found myself having an entirely Kevin Spacey moment.
There was a 'Saturday girl' to wash the hair, a luxury my reduced crown does not need. Dispensing, therefore, courteously with her offered service I was struck by two thoughts: what an entirely and utterly attractive young woman she was, and a strong sense that perhaps she was not entirely unfamiliar.
As it does not, by and large, do for a cleric of a certain age - even one in Saturday mufti - to be accosting entirely and utterly attractive young women with the hackneyed phrase "Haven't we met somewhere before?", I said nothing and sat down to be dry-trimmed as per usual.
On rising though to pay my way - a decent if not spectacular cut having been accomplished - it struck me that if I were not wrong in my presumption of prior acquaintance then the person would have been all too familiar from days gone by.
"Are you by any chance Miss A?" I had therefore to enquire. Well, yes indeed she was and is. Miss A attended a local primary school with my own E and, for a while, E and she were closest of companions. Their paths diverging at secondary school level I had not seen Miss A more than once or twice since that time. So here now was a pretty child - as she was - turned into a simply stunning young woman.
Mutual identity being thus established - she of course at once spotting E's pa and perhaps somewhat puzzled that E's pa had not instantly spotted her - I had to offer some form of apology for not entirely recognising her at first. There really was nothing for it but to acknowledge it was her maturing into said entirely and utterly attractive young woman - without either seeming to doubt that this would have occurred or indeed that it was something on which one wished too stridently to comment - that had thrown me off the scent. Anyways, news and pleasantries were duly exchanged before I left Isaac's in continuance of the day's activities.
From dim remembrance of the film itself I am tolerably confident I shall not find myself flipping burgers for a living, nor indeed end up with a hole in the back of my head having been shot by the irate father of the obscure object of Mr. Spacey's desire.
One is though left with a firm sense that whereas 'American Beauty' qua film does not and cannot match 'American Beauty' qua album, it has moved up the hierarchy of significantly apposite and interesting cinematic experiences.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Sweat and Toil...
...Exercise has, by and large, not been my thing. A decent country walk with the dogs is one thing, but pounding the beat whether on the road on or in the gym is another entirely. My body may be a temple as the Psalmist avers, but all the best temples are in a state of gentle decay - if not actually semi-ruinous - I think you'll find. (If you doubt me then consider the modern temples - sacred or secular - are they not essentially as empty as they are ugly?)
H on the other hand is a great one for the gymnasium: fleet of foot on the running machine, bench-pressing more iron than is strictly necessary, or else rowing half an Atlantic without actually leaving harbour as it were.
The benefits are no doubt many, though to my my idle mind not to compare with the luminosity of spirit a decent malt or Chablis confers.
Tonight, however, I must admit that all this sweat and toil has not been to waste. It would appear that Mrs. Colonel X is also in the habit of spending evenings lashed to some semi-devilish device as does H - I saw them once in a sports catalogue and marvelled just what the Inquisition could have achieved had they only had such instruments of torture to hand.
Over what I believe is known nowadays as a latte - in mine a milky coffee given to children - the two women had been comparing notes as one does. Mrs. Colonel X had, it appeared, been entirely in the dark regarding her husband's judicial forays against the Palladas family [See previous] and it would be fair to say was not overly impressed when she heard from H what had transpired.
Fulsome apologies for the poor fellow's actions were of course given and received with equal grace, and H was left in no doubt that Mrs. Colonel X would be returning home with the sole intention of making sure there would be no repetition of such unsavoury behaviour. (H recalled that Mrs. Colonel X had said that she 'took a dim view' of her husband's behaviour. This was strong stuff and we both agreed that the poor man was in for some sticky times!)
I shall endeavour, as I must, to rebuild relationships with the fellow - mustn't be seen in my position to relish the downfall of an opponent. He has, however, been beastly towards H and that, even if it is over, is not lightly forgiven or forgotten.
Perhaps, therefore, I shall not go out of my way to dis-abuse him of the notion that my witch finding powers are alive and ready to kick in just so ever when necessary! That should make him sweat a bit. Will do him the power of good: he's been looking a little over-weight and pasty for a while!
H on the other hand is a great one for the gymnasium: fleet of foot on the running machine, bench-pressing more iron than is strictly necessary, or else rowing half an Atlantic without actually leaving harbour as it were.
The benefits are no doubt many, though to my my idle mind not to compare with the luminosity of spirit a decent malt or Chablis confers.
Tonight, however, I must admit that all this sweat and toil has not been to waste. It would appear that Mrs. Colonel X is also in the habit of spending evenings lashed to some semi-devilish device as does H - I saw them once in a sports catalogue and marvelled just what the Inquisition could have achieved had they only had such instruments of torture to hand.
Over what I believe is known nowadays as a latte - in mine a milky coffee given to children - the two women had been comparing notes as one does. Mrs. Colonel X had, it appeared, been entirely in the dark regarding her husband's judicial forays against the Palladas family [See previous] and it would be fair to say was not overly impressed when she heard from H what had transpired.
Fulsome apologies for the poor fellow's actions were of course given and received with equal grace, and H was left in no doubt that Mrs. Colonel X would be returning home with the sole intention of making sure there would be no repetition of such unsavoury behaviour. (H recalled that Mrs. Colonel X had said that she 'took a dim view' of her husband's behaviour. This was strong stuff and we both agreed that the poor man was in for some sticky times!)
I shall endeavour, as I must, to rebuild relationships with the fellow - mustn't be seen in my position to relish the downfall of an opponent. He has, however, been beastly towards H and that, even if it is over, is not lightly forgiven or forgotten.
Perhaps, therefore, I shall not go out of my way to dis-abuse him of the notion that my witch finding powers are alive and ready to kick in just so ever when necessary! That should make him sweat a bit. Will do him the power of good: he's been looking a little over-weight and pasty for a while!
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Love Was In The Air...
...H and I have been bonded long enough not to overboard on the "Get your coat, you've pulled" angle of love. We take the years together - not for granted, but as a sign that it works, that it was meant to be and that E herself [dau.] is affirmation of it all.
Nonetheless, we do our duty with cheerful heart in commemoration of St. Valentinus [perm one of three martyrs]. Cards of a playful kind are exchanged, chocolates are purchased for pleasure - though rarely hideously over-priced flowers. (Nick the News was prepared to offer a dozen roses for several dozen of Her Majesty's best pounds. I had to reply that as I didn't have a dozen women on whom to lavish such treasures I would pass the offer.)
Yesterday was no exception. Though both equally stirred but not shaken by Colonel X's extraordinary assault on our domestic castle (of which lots more to come I am certain), we had determined to spend the evening in simple domestic harmony, accompanied by a soppy film and a decent wine.
That was, though, to reckon without E. E being a mid-teen there are certain things one has had to learn to expect and others that come as a complete surprise. The surprise element was a totally genuine unconcern about whether or not she would be receiving her very own first Valentine's card from a boy who is somewhere between friend and beau.
It being half-term there was no question of a personal exchange, and as they haven't yet bothered to swop full postal addresses nothing could be expected to land on the morning mat. That time will no doubt arrive in due course and one hopes it will all work out as it should.
One's own experience of the thing is somewhat limited (not at all cool as a thing in itself and therefore to be avoided was the general sense when I was a single pre-Rector). The one occasion one can recall on which a genuine "I'm sending this anonymously because I really, really hope you feel as I do, but I'm not sure" card was sent, it was indeed reciprocated - which sounds on the face of it excellent. (There were, however, certain complications too private to mention, though not so imponderable as not to be undone - albeit temporarily - by mutual desire.)
That the result was a week away in a foreign country with a certain personage is a idyll never to be lost, though it also cannot be forgotten that tears on either side were later shed. As the film says "We'll always have Paris" and there are few of us who can quote that great line from 'Casablanca' and actually mean it as the literal truth. (Or as that great crooner Leonard Cohen once memorably sang: "I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm - your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm...")
Anyways, casting nostalgic remembrance aside as one must - the matter of E and the non-Valentine having been successfully negotiated, the little treasure blithely announced that she would awfully like to go to a local show-jumping competition that evening as one of her friends was competing on a new horse, and would we mind awfully not spending the evening in domestic harmony but instead run her out and back to the event?
And what do doting lovers do? Well naturally, accede to the request, abandon the champagne and chocs and toss a coin for who has the chore of going with her. H is left with travel jankers and I'm left with a night on the Internet playing poker. That E's friend came fourth in her class and I came third in my tournament is not quite consolation enough.
Romance is not dead as such - it is merely left pining in a horsebox near you.
Nonetheless, we do our duty with cheerful heart in commemoration of St. Valentinus [perm one of three martyrs]. Cards of a playful kind are exchanged, chocolates are purchased for pleasure - though rarely hideously over-priced flowers. (Nick the News was prepared to offer a dozen roses for several dozen of Her Majesty's best pounds. I had to reply that as I didn't have a dozen women on whom to lavish such treasures I would pass the offer.)
Yesterday was no exception. Though both equally stirred but not shaken by Colonel X's extraordinary assault on our domestic castle (of which lots more to come I am certain), we had determined to spend the evening in simple domestic harmony, accompanied by a soppy film and a decent wine.
That was, though, to reckon without E. E being a mid-teen there are certain things one has had to learn to expect and others that come as a complete surprise. The surprise element was a totally genuine unconcern about whether or not she would be receiving her very own first Valentine's card from a boy who is somewhere between friend and beau.
It being half-term there was no question of a personal exchange, and as they haven't yet bothered to swop full postal addresses nothing could be expected to land on the morning mat. That time will no doubt arrive in due course and one hopes it will all work out as it should.
One's own experience of the thing is somewhat limited (not at all cool as a thing in itself and therefore to be avoided was the general sense when I was a single pre-Rector). The one occasion one can recall on which a genuine "I'm sending this anonymously because I really, really hope you feel as I do, but I'm not sure" card was sent, it was indeed reciprocated - which sounds on the face of it excellent. (There were, however, certain complications too private to mention, though not so imponderable as not to be undone - albeit temporarily - by mutual desire.)
That the result was a week away in a foreign country with a certain personage is a idyll never to be lost, though it also cannot be forgotten that tears on either side were later shed. As the film says "We'll always have Paris" and there are few of us who can quote that great line from 'Casablanca' and actually mean it as the literal truth. (Or as that great crooner Leonard Cohen once memorably sang: "I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm - your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm...")
Anyways, casting nostalgic remembrance aside as one must - the matter of E and the non-Valentine having been successfully negotiated, the little treasure blithely announced that she would awfully like to go to a local show-jumping competition that evening as one of her friends was competing on a new horse, and would we mind awfully not spending the evening in domestic harmony but instead run her out and back to the event?
And what do doting lovers do? Well naturally, accede to the request, abandon the champagne and chocs and toss a coin for who has the chore of going with her. H is left with travel jankers and I'm left with a night on the Internet playing poker. That E's friend came fourth in her class and I came third in my tournament is not quite consolation enough.
Romance is not dead as such - it is merely left pining in a horsebox near you.
Four Women of the Apocalypse
Hellish
Four women convicted of goading two toddlers - I believe a brother and a sister - into repeatedly hitting each other, whilst the women film the fight and laugh. Seven minutes of Hell.
God save us from the people we are becoming.
Four women convicted of goading two toddlers - I believe a brother and a sister - into repeatedly hitting each other, whilst the women film the fight and laugh. Seven minutes of Hell.
God save us from the people we are becoming.
Sorrow and More Shame
And now a third child in as many weeks has been gunned down in South London, the second to be killed in his own home. Whether it is meaningful or useful to say, these killings are all being labelled 'black on black' murders. Street gangs, turf wars, 'respect' vendettas, drug related and/or drug fueled - this we are told is the context.
Teenagers variously described - by the same person who works with them - as 'psychopaths high on skunk' or 'boys for whom carrying a gun is a lifestyle choice.' Either thought is as wretched as the other with their different implications for the lives being led, and the lives being lost.
So sorrowful and so shaming.
Teenagers variously described - by the same person who works with them - as 'psychopaths high on skunk' or 'boys for whom carrying a gun is a lifestyle choice.' Either thought is as wretched as the other with their different implications for the lives being led, and the lives being lost.
So sorrowful and so shaming.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
HTML?
althouse rocks
...just to see if it works! And so it does!
Rector finally enters the wondeful world of hyperlinks! (We don't like to rush things round here.)
...just to see if it works! And so it does!
Rector finally enters the wondeful world of hyperlinks! (We don't like to rush things round here.)
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
League of Shame
1. Netherlands
2. Sweden
3. Denmark
4. Finland
5. Spain
6. Switzerland
7. Norway
8. Italy
9. Republic of Ireland
10. Belgium
11. Germany
12. Canada
13. Greece
14. Poland
15. Czech Republic
16. France
17. Portugal
18. Austria
19. Hungary
20. United States
21. United Kingdom
...No, it's not our football team, our cricket team even, yet alone our chances of staging a decent Olympic Games, it's UNICEF's verdict on our ability to offer our children a decent start in life.
Of twenty-one industrialised nations surveyed, the United Kingdom was the worst of the lot. The saddest part of it is, perhaps, that I for one am not at all surprised.
2. Sweden
3. Denmark
4. Finland
5. Spain
6. Switzerland
7. Norway
8. Italy
9. Republic of Ireland
10. Belgium
11. Germany
12. Canada
13. Greece
14. Poland
15. Czech Republic
16. France
17. Portugal
18. Austria
19. Hungary
20. United States
21. United Kingdom
...No, it's not our football team, our cricket team even, yet alone our chances of staging a decent Olympic Games, it's UNICEF's verdict on our ability to offer our children a decent start in life.
Of twenty-one industrialised nations surveyed, the United Kingdom was the worst of the lot. The saddest part of it is, perhaps, that I for one am not at all surprised.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Church Militant...
Scrub any positive remarks made [see previous] regarding the moral probity and personal courage of loyal law enforcement officers - just had Colonel X round wanting to arrest H for 'electoral fraud'!
You may recall that his ejection from the post of Treasurer following the recent Parish Council elections was sweetened by giving him the emeritus title of 'Constable-at-Arms'. This office is a throwback (as so much around here is) to late medieval days when the village needed someone - in the days long before Peelers - to act as official representative of the legal establishment. A position only less than social death when it became purely nominal, as you can imagine.
The powers vested in the office have long and reasonably lain dormant, though never - and this is the rub - formally deleted. Thus in a purely technical and utterly narrow-minded sense Colonel X has retained the authority to 'arrest and detain such villainous personages as he should see fit'.
The last time anyone tried to use this power was shortly after the War, when the then President of the Cricket Club sought to detain his reserve wicket-keeper who was about to move from the village to take work in Norwich on the eve of a singularly important match against a neighbouring and highly-fancied team. A worthy cause no doubt, but not one that cut the mustard with Mrs. Reserve Wicket-Keeper who threatened to streak naked across the pitch at some important juncture of the match unless her Charlie were allowed his liberty.
Mrs. Reserve Wicket-Keeper possessing not one of the less weighty figures in general or bosom in particular, the President had had no choice to give in to such blackmail. It was, apparently, all too obvious in his face that the words 'laughing' and 'stock' were stirring through his imagination in considering the possible consequences. Charlie duly departed to Norwich and the team lost by five wickets.
From that day to this there has been no more talk of detention from any office holder until this, aforementioned, fell moment. Naturally one's first reaction had been to assume that the Colonel had been at the sauce or been scolded by Mrs. Colonel for some domestic failing on his part (being at the sauce being one such) - both known to be frequent events in the X household, and cause each of a certain high irascibility.
No though it seemed. The Colonel was sober, unchastised and deadly in earnest. It had, he said, come to his attention that Mildred and H had had some telephone discussion on the very day of the election, in contravention of the electoral rules. (Trust the man to have a copy of these rules about his person to show me the exact paragraph listing forbidden practices on election day: 'Para. 19.7 - Candidates must not engage in private discussions that might have a bearing on the outcome of the voting.')
As for 'coming to his attention' there was no drawing the man on how he came to know that such an alleged dereliction had occurred. (The Mr. in the Mr. and Mrs. J combo does have a post within telecommunications and if I find that he has been involved in illicit wire-tapping of the rectory he'll not be long for this life I can tell you!) Prima facie evidence, according to the Colonel - who miraculously happened to have a copy of the governance of Constable-At-Arms in his other pocket! - was all that was needed for an arrest to be made, at his total discretion.
Now clearly the act behind which lay the intention was not going to occur. For one, H happened to be out at Ladies Darts, there being therefore no corpus for the Colonel to habeat. For seconds, over my dead body would any man be allowed to carry off my wife against her will - with her will would be another matter entirely, though one is not anticipating a late-night call from Brad Pitt.
Both these points were made with steely determination of debunking the whole madcap notion. Sufficient to quell the Colonel? Sadly not, the man has utterly 'lost the plot', as E would say, having been deprived of his Treasuryship. (One does wonder in review whether Mrs. Colonel had a hand in igniting this fever.)
A falling out between the clerical and the army cloth is not a happy state of affairs. Both have forces and powers at their disposal to make the life of each a misery. And indeed major rows in the village always end in tears for parties inevitably - and sometimes all too readily - caught up in the cross-fire.
An eirenic approach would perhaps have been for the best. But under the meek exterior of the clerical black lurks a heart as militant as any comparably skulking under best-issue khaki.
It is with no great personal pride or pleasure that I have to recount my chosen method of seeking to deter the man from his quest was far from turning the other cheek as taught, but rather fighting fire with fire.
"Oh," I said. "So you are intending to arrest my wife using your authority as Constable-At-Arms are you?" He replying firmly in the affirmative, I then weighed in with the killer blow.
"Well in that case my good fellow, I have to remind you that the post of Rector of this Parish has held in perpetuity from 1683 the diocesan responsibility of Friend of the Inquisition. It is, therefore, vested in myself as humble incumbent the right not only to arrest you for any heresy I care to name, but also thence to have you burned at the stake on the village green the following morning, there being no appeal against either my judgement or my sentence. Do I make myself clear?"
Not sure whether in military parlance this would count as a flanking manoeuvre or a frontal assault, but leaving aside the matter of strategic nomenclature you could say I hit the target in one. Colonel X, being the great traditionalist that he is would not dream of disputing a lawful power. Clearly not aspiring to star in any Joan of Arc remake he beat what he reasonably described to me as 'a tactical retreat' and left for the night.
This though clearly is not the end of the matter. The rancour within the breast went with him and I have no doubt that some later re-assault will result in due course.
Am tempted to phone H on her mobile telephone to give her advance warning of the threat. Dare not though lest it put her off her game. Ladies Darts being even more competitive than village cricket, I'll not be thanked for my bravery in seeing off the mad Colonel X if my telling her of it were to make her miss a crucial double in the deciding leg.
A certain extra anxiety also troubles me as I write and wait for H's return. I made apposite mention of the Colonel being a staunch traditionalist, as indeed he is. What though I am relying on for the meanwhile is that he is not the historian too. Entirely between ourselves, you must understand, my tale of being 'Friend of the Inquisition' with witch-burning powers was just that. Pure invention from start to finish. Have occasionally wondered if it might be a useful title to carry mind you. And wouldn't it be handy just now?
Oh dear!
You may recall that his ejection from the post of Treasurer following the recent Parish Council elections was sweetened by giving him the emeritus title of 'Constable-at-Arms'. This office is a throwback (as so much around here is) to late medieval days when the village needed someone - in the days long before Peelers - to act as official representative of the legal establishment. A position only less than social death when it became purely nominal, as you can imagine.
The powers vested in the office have long and reasonably lain dormant, though never - and this is the rub - formally deleted. Thus in a purely technical and utterly narrow-minded sense Colonel X has retained the authority to 'arrest and detain such villainous personages as he should see fit'.
The last time anyone tried to use this power was shortly after the War, when the then President of the Cricket Club sought to detain his reserve wicket-keeper who was about to move from the village to take work in Norwich on the eve of a singularly important match against a neighbouring and highly-fancied team. A worthy cause no doubt, but not one that cut the mustard with Mrs. Reserve Wicket-Keeper who threatened to streak naked across the pitch at some important juncture of the match unless her Charlie were allowed his liberty.
Mrs. Reserve Wicket-Keeper possessing not one of the less weighty figures in general or bosom in particular, the President had had no choice to give in to such blackmail. It was, apparently, all too obvious in his face that the words 'laughing' and 'stock' were stirring through his imagination in considering the possible consequences. Charlie duly departed to Norwich and the team lost by five wickets.
From that day to this there has been no more talk of detention from any office holder until this, aforementioned, fell moment. Naturally one's first reaction had been to assume that the Colonel had been at the sauce or been scolded by Mrs. Colonel for some domestic failing on his part (being at the sauce being one such) - both known to be frequent events in the X household, and cause each of a certain high irascibility.
No though it seemed. The Colonel was sober, unchastised and deadly in earnest. It had, he said, come to his attention that Mildred and H had had some telephone discussion on the very day of the election, in contravention of the electoral rules. (Trust the man to have a copy of these rules about his person to show me the exact paragraph listing forbidden practices on election day: 'Para. 19.7 - Candidates must not engage in private discussions that might have a bearing on the outcome of the voting.')
As for 'coming to his attention' there was no drawing the man on how he came to know that such an alleged dereliction had occurred. (The Mr. in the Mr. and Mrs. J combo does have a post within telecommunications and if I find that he has been involved in illicit wire-tapping of the rectory he'll not be long for this life I can tell you!) Prima facie evidence, according to the Colonel - who miraculously happened to have a copy of the governance of Constable-At-Arms in his other pocket! - was all that was needed for an arrest to be made, at his total discretion.
Now clearly the act behind which lay the intention was not going to occur. For one, H happened to be out at Ladies Darts, there being therefore no corpus for the Colonel to habeat. For seconds, over my dead body would any man be allowed to carry off my wife against her will - with her will would be another matter entirely, though one is not anticipating a late-night call from Brad Pitt.
Both these points were made with steely determination of debunking the whole madcap notion. Sufficient to quell the Colonel? Sadly not, the man has utterly 'lost the plot', as E would say, having been deprived of his Treasuryship. (One does wonder in review whether Mrs. Colonel had a hand in igniting this fever.)
A falling out between the clerical and the army cloth is not a happy state of affairs. Both have forces and powers at their disposal to make the life of each a misery. And indeed major rows in the village always end in tears for parties inevitably - and sometimes all too readily - caught up in the cross-fire.
An eirenic approach would perhaps have been for the best. But under the meek exterior of the clerical black lurks a heart as militant as any comparably skulking under best-issue khaki.
It is with no great personal pride or pleasure that I have to recount my chosen method of seeking to deter the man from his quest was far from turning the other cheek as taught, but rather fighting fire with fire.
"Oh," I said. "So you are intending to arrest my wife using your authority as Constable-At-Arms are you?" He replying firmly in the affirmative, I then weighed in with the killer blow.
"Well in that case my good fellow, I have to remind you that the post of Rector of this Parish has held in perpetuity from 1683 the diocesan responsibility of Friend of the Inquisition. It is, therefore, vested in myself as humble incumbent the right not only to arrest you for any heresy I care to name, but also thence to have you burned at the stake on the village green the following morning, there being no appeal against either my judgement or my sentence. Do I make myself clear?"
Not sure whether in military parlance this would count as a flanking manoeuvre or a frontal assault, but leaving aside the matter of strategic nomenclature you could say I hit the target in one. Colonel X, being the great traditionalist that he is would not dream of disputing a lawful power. Clearly not aspiring to star in any Joan of Arc remake he beat what he reasonably described to me as 'a tactical retreat' and left for the night.
This though clearly is not the end of the matter. The rancour within the breast went with him and I have no doubt that some later re-assault will result in due course.
Am tempted to phone H on her mobile telephone to give her advance warning of the threat. Dare not though lest it put her off her game. Ladies Darts being even more competitive than village cricket, I'll not be thanked for my bravery in seeing off the mad Colonel X if my telling her of it were to make her miss a crucial double in the deciding leg.
A certain extra anxiety also troubles me as I write and wait for H's return. I made apposite mention of the Colonel being a staunch traditionalist, as indeed he is. What though I am relying on for the meanwhile is that he is not the historian too. Entirely between ourselves, you must understand, my tale of being 'Friend of the Inquisition' with witch-burning powers was just that. Pure invention from start to finish. Have occasionally wondered if it might be a useful title to carry mind you. And wouldn't it be handy just now?
Oh dear!
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