Happy Christmas!

Happy Christmas, readers! (if there are any!) Plans seem to be getting increasinly strange, but we should set off with a car full of food, furniture and pot plants and find somewhere to have a decent meal by Boxing Day. Back in the New Year.

Tigger returns!

The Bouncy One is back! Frozen after the train journey yesterday, and in desperate need of sleep coming straight off night duty. She's on good form today, however, so we take ourselves off to the Hotel for a warming lunch. Some odd decor for the festive season; the talking Christmas tree by the door is annoying, and the snowman raising his hat in the window slightly creepy (I'm not making this up), but the food is great and the fire cheering, and NO CAROLS on the muzak!

In the giving and the receiving

A present arrived today. "Letters to a Young Poet" by Rilke. I've not got any Rilke, though I love it. I have this theory that Rilke is one of those writers you don't buy for yourself. You don't go to Waterstones and think "I'll get a volume of Rilke"; you buy it for someone else, or you get it given to you. So you would only have Rilke on your shelf if someone had bought you a copy. And, until now, no-one has. Part of its significance is in the giving and the receiving. The epitome of Christmas present giving, in other words. So many of the quotations appear in quotation anthologies, and so much great wisdom, simply expressed. Loads of cross-references to novels and films that I like too. Wonderful.

Things go on much the same; the season of Bing and Santa draws to its inevitable conclusion. Nine church services over the next five days, and that's just me! Some one asked how I did it (presumably all the rushing about and turning up here there and everywhere). I gently pointed out that I wasn't the actual vicar, merely a stunt double employed at this time of year to make the job easier. Like the real Santa, I need lots of stand-ins. I don't think she was convinced. In fact, I know how I do it. I do it by neglecting myself and my family and my friends, and concentrating entirely on the parishes and their needs.

School productions

Lots of school productions this week, and a very high standard set, especially by one of the primary schools. They didn't just get the words right, and sing in tune, they were right there with one hundred percent concentration, smiling and engaged with leaders and audience. Impressive. A few years ago we'd have been impressed with such a performance from FE Performing Arts students of 18 or 19 years old. Now we're getting this from primary age children. In the pub afterwards, parents agreed, they went to support their kids, but came away feeling that they'd been entertained.

With the smaller schools, the standard is not as high, but the effort still considerable, and the commitment of teachers and assistants is huge. At the beginning of nativity plays we make the now customary announcements, under the child protection policy, including No Photography; Please Apply to School for copies of Photos taken by Staff. No-one takes a blind bit of notice. There is a blizzard of flash as each child appears.

5 things I don't want to hear this Christmas

1. It's for the children really, isn't it?
2. I'm not doing all this next year!
3. Here's yours (thrusting card into my hand)
4. It's really become so commercialised nowadays, hasn't it?
5. Did you have a good Christmas? (said on Boxing Day)

Someone else is out there

Someone else is out there with similar ideas. An excellent training day on political theology, with the very excellent Luke Bretherton, who lectures at my old theological college. I was there before he was born, of course, but no matter, the guy talks sense. Four models of political engagement for the Church: pastor (putting sticking plasters on the wounds), pedagogy (setting ourselves up as an example to the world - not much chance of that these days), party (what i've been doing lately, engaging with local government on schools policies and the unpleasant necessity of meetings with actual politicians), and prophet (telling 'em how it is). I've been around long enough to hear ideas and people for the second and third time, but that doesn't matter, if they're good. Saul Alinsky and Citizen Organising goes back to the forties, but it's good stuff that has never been properly tested out. Maybe someone will take it on at last?

Five things to give thanks for today

1. The sunshine! It has been so dark and wet for days
2. Tigger keeps ringing and bucking me up when I'm down
3. She will be back on Saturday
4. Log fires!
5. Emails from friends!

The clouds cleared

The clouds cleared today, in more than one sense. Out on the hills yesterday and today, and the sun has shone. Yesterday was gin-clear, with every tree, branch and leaf sharply defined. Today was less so, but the views from the ridges were spectacular. The valleys, many of which see no sun at this time of year, were dark and cold, and ice remains all day. Some of the smaller lanes were also streams, taking away the water of five days of continuous rain. I visited homes to the west, in some of the most remote corners. Everyone I wanted to see was at home, always a good sign; I received warm welcomes and felt I'd done a good days work at the end.

Disappearing up your own whatsname

Talking of disappearing, the papers this Sunday have several interesting musings on the tale of John Darwin, the man from Seaton Carew who disappeared for five years, presumed dead, but was really living at home for most of that time.

This story brings the first mention of Seaton Carew in print that I have ever seen. I went to Seaton Carew once, when I was quite a small boy. We went for a trip to the seaside for the day, leaving our little terraced house down by Middlesbrough docks, across the Transporter Bridge and on the bus to Seaton Carew. It was wet and windy, and when we got there we could walk along the seafront and look at .... well, the Transporter Bridge and Middlesbrough. If I had to live in Seaton Carew, I'd be sorely tempted to fake my death and flee to Panama, I can tell you.

Alex Clark in the Observer is reminded of the story of the cabinet minister John Stonehouse, who disappeared from a beach in Miami and has never been found. David Nobbs wrote the wonderful Reggie Perrin novels and TV series, which I loved and which I have on video. He talks in the Independent about the connection between Stonehouse and Reggie (there isn't one; it was a coincidence), but interestingly muses on the phenomenon of disappearance, its temptations, its difficulties. He see it as a male thing, and something of which many of us dream (yes, of course I do).

"When I wrote the first draft ... Reggie didn't even disappear. His breakdown led him to a mental home. This didn't work at all. If a character is going mad, the worst place a writer can send him is a mental home. For drama you put mad people in a sane world and sane people ionto a mad world." Exactly so.

For more than thirty years, Nobbs has been receiving, and answering, letters, all from men, who wanted to tell him about their fantasies of disappearance.

"The element that all these letters had in common was disillusion with their work. It is an unavoidable fact that millions of people in our society are in jobs that do not fully satisfy them, simply because there are millions of jobs that by their nature cannot satisfy a well-balanced but imaginative and ambitious person." You're not wrong there.

That roar again

A little snippet from Richard Chartes, Bishop of London, last week: "The tide on Dover Beach which Matthew Arnold viewed as a symbol of the 'sea of faith' has gone out unnaturally far" and predicts a sign of "an incoming tsunami". Oh really? And who will be riding the waves? Not those African and North American evangelicals, surely? Makes one want to get the hell off the beach and disappear ....

Finding the write words

Apparently Hemingway said to Fitzgerald, "Letter-writing is such a swell way to avoid working, and yet still feel you've done something". Maybe blogging is like that too. I've not had much success finding blogs that are actually interesting; too many of them seem to be about knitting and recipes. Am I doing this wrong? I like the list ones, www.todolistblog.com and Sasha Cagan, and also Post Secret www.postsecret.blogspot.com . Watch for lists as the New year approaches!

Words to Use More in 2008
1. Great Scott! (as Dr Emmett Brown in Back to the Future)
2. Whiffling (to mean "trifling" or the modern "piddling" as in Charles Lamb)
3. I'm not available (obvious)
4. Snazzy (not going to be easy, with the local uniform of Thinsulate hats and fleeces)
5. No! (see 3)

More lists to come no doubt.

Put on the armour of light

The season of Advent has been disappearing for a long time. Alan Bennett in "Writing Home" wrote gloomily that Advent is now "the run up to Christmas". Advent calendars are not called Advent calendars, they are "Countdown to Christmas". Last week at one of our church services on Advent Sunday; no Advent hymns; the first candle on the Advent wreath lit, without comment or prayer; two lines of the Advent collect quoted but the whole prayer not used. This in a stew of different themes; Good news, good deeds; a bit of Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony; part of a short story by O. Henry ("Who's he, children?" "Does he play for Arsenal?"); The Good Samaritan; a plug for Amnesty International. It was like flipping through a magazine in a dentist's waiting room. I wish I'd gone to the Cathedral for the Advent Carol Service.

Another Day

It's now very late. I'm listening to Book of the Week on Radio 4, which is "At Large and At Small: Confessions of a Literary Hedonist" by Ann Fadiman. Wonderful stuff. It's a piece on sleep, circadian rhythms, owls and larks. I'm not an owl. I'm not sure I'm a lark either. My rhythms seem to be all over the place. It's been a long day.

**************************

That Mister Testicle went off to Manchester for the day. Dressed as usual as the epitomy of the English countryman, he went by train, and enjoyed a tram ride across the city centre, and a good look round the refurbished city; urban renewal courtesy of the IRA. On a whim he went into the magistrates court, which he had heard was a remarkably beautiful building. Passing through airport style security, all the alarms went off; security staff appeared and he was apprehended. A long fixed blade knife was removed from the coat pocket of his thorn-proof jacket. Explanations were required.

"I was cutting some wood earlier", said TMT.
"In Manchester?" said the suspicious guards.
TMT talked his way out of it and was allowed to leave. "I just wanted to look at the architecture", he told them as he left for the station.

************************

Posters and prayer cards have arrived for the Lambeth conference. They show happy smiling bishops from various parts of th world. I don't know where these were taken, but it clearly wasn't at an Anglican conference. Our diocese is asking for volunteers to host bishops in their home. The Stonemason said she would bid for Archbishop Akinola. Perhaps i could entertain the Archbishop of Sydney.

*************************

I went to see R's ageing mother in her draughty and untidy house, stuffed full of clutter reminding her of the days she and her husband were in what she still calls "the Colonies". "Keen-ya" she says. Never "Ken-ya". While I'm talking to her she gathers up a handful of twigs in the hearth, and tears a few sheets from a crumpled copy of the "Daily Telegraph". She throws these into the battered stove and tosses in a match, while continuing to tell me some tale of life in the fifties. A roaring fire bursts instantly to life, bringing warmth to the chill room.

"I suppose I shall have to get used to calling you by your first name," she says, "as i believe is the custom these days". "Thank you" I mumble. "And you may call me Edith," she says. "Thank you," I say again. "But not in the village," says Edith. "In the village, I am always Mrs E. Smith". "Very well," I say, checking the calendar. Yes, it is the twenty-first century. As I leave I tell Edith where I am going next. "Give her my best wishes," she instructs me.

When I arrive at the farmhouse, and am sat down with coffee and a plate of cakes, I remember the instructions.

"Mrs E.Smith sends her best wishes," I say.

"Who?"

"Mrs E. Smith"

"Oh, you mean Edith!"

**************************

I thought the day was over, but no sooner in the house than a call to go to Ken who is dying. His daughter is there. I sit with them both for an hour and we talk quietly about the old man, 99 years old and to the last a grumpy old sod, she says. Eventually i decide to go off home and perhaps check back on progress later. I take the bony hand and say "Cheerio Ken!" to the prone and unconscious figure. "God bless!". i take my leave and head down the stairs, but at the door I'm called back.

"He's gone!" she says. "What a remarkable ministry!" she says, "How do you do that?"

I'm not sure anyone will want to shake hands with me again if this gets out.

**************************

It's now two a.m. The Sri Lanka test is on the radio. I'll read some Jenny Diski. Or maybe a little philosophy. That should send me off.

Securing your headstones

Several of you out there have asked about the reference to "topple-testing" headstones, so here are the original recommendations sent out by our insurance brokers:

Recent publicity about Local Authorities using a “topple tester” on headstones in their cemeteries has caused clergy and church councils to be concerned about safety in churchyards. The Ecclesiastical Insurance Group have confirmed that they consider the use of topple testing to be excessive and that a “kneel test” is sufficient. In a “kneel test” the headstone is considered to be safe if it can support the weight of a person leaning on it to get up from the kneeling position.

The church council should use the “kneel test” to check the safety of the headstones on a regular basis, and record their findings. If a stone is found to be insecure they must make every effort to locate the family whose responsibility the stone is. If the family cannot be located the council must deal with the matter themselves as it is possible they could be held responsible for any injury arising. This, of course, would be subject to Faculty provisions. For a closed churchyard responsibility rests with the Local Authority.

The Public Liability cover will protect the interests of the church council in the event that they are found to be legally liable for any injury. The proviso is, as with all aspects of the insurance, that they have taken all reasonable steps to mitigate any loss. If they do the above they will have done all that could be expected of them.

And here, by popular request, (OK, one person, but she is a popular person), are my additional regulations:

Following the circular issued by the Diocesan Communications Officer on the Security of Headstones in Churchyards, please note that the following additional regulations should be applied in parishes in the deanery from 1 April 2007.

APPOINTMENT OF PARISH HEADSTONE TOPPLING PREVENTION OFFICER
A parish Headstone Toppling Prevention Officer (HTPO) should be appointed by the PCC at the next Annual Parochial Church Meeting (APCM). This person will be required to under go all the usual checks, including CRB, HSE, BSE, ABC, CDM and bar. The term of office is for life.

In additional the APCM should have in place a HEADSTONE TOPPLING PRVENTION POLICY, draft versions of a recommended policy are available in the report and handbook “Flat on our Faces? Faith in our Churchyards” from the Diocesan Office. Training for kneel-testers is now being drawn up by the diocesan training department. This will be a four year course, leading to a Diploma in Headstone Toppling Prevention, validated by the University of Llandrindod Wells.

SELECTION AND TRAINING OF KNEEL-TESTERS
A list of kneel-testers should be prepared by the HTPO, and a rota for testing drawn up and published in the church porch. Remember that the names and personal details of all kneel-testers are to be made available to anyone who asks under the Freedom of Information Act, and that to comply with Data Protection you must keep this information safe and never reveal it to anyone. The additional costs of the kneel-testing team may be offset by hiring them out as professional mourners.

HTPO; QUALIFICATIONS
Please note that equal opportunities legislation requires that the person appointed should be neither male nor female. The ideal HTPO would be aged between 30 and 40, six foot three, with good muscle tone. Dark wavy hair and smouldering brown eyes are desirable but not essential. If an ideal candidate cannot be found, anyone with a pulse and the ability to rise from their knees without assistance or artificial aids will have to do. In practice it is likely to be someone who is not present at the meeting, or who has just popped out to make the tea.

KNEEL-TESTING: SETTING UP A PROCESS
The HTPO should conduct a visual survey of the churchyard noting
The total number of headstones
The number of headstones deemed to be liable to topple
Any hazards of which the kneel-testing team must be aware (eg. uneven ground, nettles, snakes, open graves)

The team can then get to work, dividing up the churchyard in pairs, one testing and the other recording findings on the sheets which will be provided in the handbook. This process should be carried out fortnightly until the end of time. In the event of the Second Coming of Our Lord, it is the HTPO’s responsibility to give an account on the Dreadful Day of Judgment.

It could only happen here! 2

Start of the Christmas shopping season here, as everywhere. The Christmas lights were switched on with due ceremony yesterday; eventually. All began very well; a new sleigh for Santa, on the back of a flat-bed trailer; in fact a new Santa, replacing the previous highly popular version; and a couple of 12 year old Santa helper elf-types. All set at the bottom of the town, and at the appointed time, the strong winds and lashing rain abated; but nothing happened. All of us at the top of the town waited. And waited. Eventually, when the wind had picked up and the rain had begun to fall heavily again, the town band appeared, trumpeting and drumming furiously through the deluge. By this time they were half an hour late. All the lights, actually conncted to timeclocks in individual premises, were already on. A couple of solitary fireworks went off pop, the rest soaked by the downpour. Santa's driver had parked his car and got it blocked in (this is at least the second if not the third time that had happened; another year Santa's jeep didn't quite make it to the top of town, a burnt out clutch bringing proceedings to a halt, and Santa walking the last few yards). Another vehicle had to be found, the only one with a towbar driven by someone who had never actually towed anything before. He fetched it the long way round to avoid the crowds and set off half an hour late. The fireworkers had meanwhile uncovered all the fireworks at the appointed time. By the time they went off, they were soaking wet. We all went to the pub and told stories of previous festive disasters.

Stone me!

Sudan has erupted into mobs baying for the blood of schoolteacher Gillian Gibbons, for allowing her class of primary school children to name the class teddy Muhammad, demanding she be stoned, lashed, beheaded. A columnist in the Observer newspaper got it right today, when he reminded us that just recently Saudi courts dealt with a rape case by condemning the victim to 90 lashes. When she complained they increased the sentence to 200 lashes. So the solution is simple. Lash the teddy.

It could only happen here!

It could only happen here! J came into the Tap and ordered a pint. "Where's the dog?" someone asked. "She's locked herself in the car!" he said. Turns out that B, a rescued whippet, had been whining, so J decided to leave for a bit outside. While bouncing around the front seat of the van, the daft dog managed to lock the drivers door with her paw, the keys still inside. J enjoyed his pint, while we all watched the canine silouette bounce around the van. We discussed what to do. We decided the RSPCA would be the ones to call; they'd turn out for a dog; AA wouldn't come if you told them your missus was inside.

J called Green Flag, who came half an hour later. J walked out to see them, pint in hand. They opened the door and released the dog. J thanked them. "You're not planning on driving home, sir?" said the guy. "Of course not!" said J, who lives five miles from town out in the wilds. We all adjourned back inside and bought the dog some scratchings.

Topple testing casualties

Apparently two people have been injured testing the stability and scurity of gravestones in a country churchyard. Previously insurance companies have issued guidelines to country churches, insisting that they "topple test" gravestones to see whether or not they might fall over and injure someone. If you can raise yourself from a kneeling to a standing position while supporting yourself on said gravestone, without it falling over, you can be said to have topple tesed it to the satisfaction of your insurers. Unfortunately, it seems that these two hapless souls misjudged the monument, and have suffered the consequences.

These are the first instances of topple testing injuries. Prior to the introduction of these new health and safety advice there were no recorded instances of injuries from falling headstones.

Lest we forget

I don't do the whole Remembrance thing these days; the flags and the bugles and stuff, I mean. I prefer an early Holy Communion and away out of it. After said early HC I drove over the hills the long, and pretty, way, avoiding town. I headed west, and as the time reached 10.50am felt compelled to pull over. I stopped in a lay-by and looked and listened; bright winter sunshine, a dog barking, birds, cars passing on the road. I set off again at 11.05am. I stopped at the big store, where a car boot sale was in full swing; lots of people, the shop full, not a poppy in sight. I didn't want the band and the wreaths, and I certainly didn't want the small children marched from their classrooms during the past week and given Union flags to wave and their pictures in the paper. But I didn't want that either.

Long withdrawing roar

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the fields of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

Don Cupitt in "Sea of Faith" writes thus:

Matthew Arnold published “Dover Beach” in 1867, in his last collection of poems. It expressed the sense, common at the time, that the ancient supernatural world of gods and spirits which had surrounded mankind since the first dawn of consciousness was at last inexorably slipping away … From now on thinking Christians would either be revisionists of some kind, or else be consciously in a dissenting minority.

Arnold himself was a revisionist, for after turning away from poetry he published in the 1870s four books which would now be called radical theology. But he was primarily a thinker. In the English manner, he was a mixture of poet and shopkeeper, combining an intuitive, imaginative mind with a sharp sense of social reality.