Michaelmas reflection

We have passed the equinox; now the hours of night are gradually longer than the hours of daylight. This has always been a time for feasting and celebrating, combined with the most intensive work of the agricultural year, culminating in harvest. Rural Britain used Michaelmas as a time for harvest suppers and feasts, which most churches still observe; for the hiring of servants and the paying of rents, which few still do, and for the celebration of the dedication of churches and chapels. This last was one of the statutes of the English Reformation, passed by King Henry VIII, who wanted to prevent people celebrating on saints days throughout the year, and instead insisted that they should all observe the first Sunday of October as the feast of dedication.

Of all the laws passed during that period, this one was almost universally ignored, which gives great cause for hope, as we still live in a time when both church and state seem to feel the need to legislate their way towards desired outcomes, to form society through telling people what to do, or what to believe. Knowing when to turn a blind eye to such attempts at regulation is a necessary skill in these times.

Here Michaelmas (celebrated according to the equinox, not the Church festival on the 29th) was warm and sunny, and our fair was a good hearted occasion, with music, dancing, lots of food and beer. The main street was closed for two days. Many re-emerged on Monday slightly the worse for wear, and enquiring of their neighbours as to whether or not they had had a good time.

Revolutionary Road

Finally saw this great film by Sam Mendes tonight. Not one of his funny ones. The claustrophobia of suburbia. All the principal players are good, with a surprisingly (should I be surprised?) good performance from Leonardo di Caprio. Not a comfortable watch, but very worthwhile. Beautiful soundtrack. As is often the case, the crazy guy sees what's really going on. Sad, sad, sad.

Sax Appeal

Re-arrangments on the second hand musical instrument front, as a saxophone turned up. Second son now has the clarinet, which he was wanting to try, having done recorder and flute as a child. And I have a saxophone! It's fantastic! I love the action of blowing it! I can play five notes, and if I get them in the right order, I can play (a phrase from) the New World Symphony! How amazing is that! Clever Mrs Demon and her wheeling dealing!

How was your day?

How was your day? Mine was pretty good. Yes, you did read that correctly. Pretty good. Warm, still, sunny weather at last. I love September. Mrs Demon went off to see all her chums at the big car boot sale, and came back with a second-hand clarinet. For me. Isn't that sweet? I really want to get a note out of a saxophone, but a clarinet is as good. And I spoke to my neice, Gorgeous, on the phone. Gorgeous has packed her job in, rented the flat and is off to Vietnam for a year with her boyfriend. And good for her, I think it's brilliant. So a slight adjustment is needed to the Exit Strategy, and post-Exit strategy. It must now include:

a. Learn the clarinet
b. Visit Vietnam

Out! Out damned Spot! 2

And Jilly Cooper said that surnames were cool names for dogs, and I thought, well, yes, possibly, and then I went to the pub at lunchtime, and met a dog called Johnson! He was named after Martin Johnson, the rugby player. That's good. The SMD had a field day, by the way; the huge black Labrador, who she is madly in love with, was there, plus three bassett hounds and a collie-cross.

And what about town names? Also cool for dogs apparently. Barnsley. Harborough. Droylsden. Try them out. It could be a winner. Trust me.

Out! Out damn Spot!

It might have been the name of Lady Macbeth's dog but Spot doesn't make the Petplan top ten dog's names this year, or any recent year, come to that. Shame. The SMD doesn't feature either, but she seems to be coping. Whatever became of Rex? What happened to Patch and Fido? They're all middle class children's names now. Daisy and Molly and Holly. I like Jilly Cooper's suggestions. A dog called Decorum, and another called Discretion, so that we could be exercising Discretion. Geddit? Good one.

Dogs can't climb trees

I'm aware that you have not been kept up to date with progress with the SMD. She is nine months old now, and still looks like a 12 week Labrador, which produces lots of squeals of delight when we meet people. She enjoys tearing about at high speed; rushing through undergrowth; jumping; and throwing herself headlong into water. She enjoys the boat, and the Magic Bus, and is a very relaxed traveller and good companion.

We were up the woods this monring, and she was about her usual business of trying to catch rabbits and birds. One bird flew out in front of her, and up a tree. The only way you're going to catch that, I said, is by climbing the tree. Undaunted she threw herself up the trunk of this beech tree. It was only when she was about six feet up the tree, and our eyes grew level, that she realised that she was a dog, and therefore can't climb trees. She came down even quicker than she went up.

Lovely funeral, father!

Went to a lovely funeral. Ninety-nine and a half. Sherry-loving spinster, Walsingham dame, racing tipster, scourge of trendy clergy bringing innovations. I once had the temerity to re-arrange the lady chapel with a westward facing altar and the chairs in a circle instead of rows. "I want to come to mass, not a seance!" was the response. Lovely lady, but terrifying. We had an arrangment. If she didn't like something she'd call me over; "A word father...". I'd listen attentively and say "I'll give it serious consideration..." She and I knew that nothing would be done. We got on well, I think.

Sleep Furiously

This last film in our “summer season” didn’t get a good review from Philip French in the Observer, but I liked it. In fact, if a film gets a review from me, it’ll be because I enjoyed it. Like dovegreyreader (link on the right) I see no point in trashing other people’s best efforts.

The film is a documentary by Gideon Koppel chronicling a year in the life of the Welsh rural community of Trefeurig, which is not too far from here, though I don’t know it. It’s beautifully filmed; long still shots of changing weather patterns and landscape; time lapse; delicate and beautiful close-ups of men and women at work doing ordinary tasks, baking, woodwork, weaving; ravishing colours and textures. Gideon Koppel is not afraid to let the camera linger, as on one shot of a departing tractor and the sheepdog who stands and watches it go. There is no commentary. The music is sparingly applied, unobtrusive piano-based themes by the band Aphex Twin. Koppel clearly loves the community and the landscape, and offers this film as an elegiac tribute to a way of life under threat. Some of the issues are the same ones that we have tackled here in the past six years. Some of the conversations are word for word the same as exchanges I have had with local people.

The locals are only too well aware of the precarious nature of the community. This is especially true of the small primary school. We see scenes of the school. We see the community meetings held to try to dissuade the authorities from closing it.

Koppel’s mother appears throughout the film. Towards the end he quotes her; “It is only when I sense the end of things that I have the courage to speak; the courage, but not the words”.

One is left with a strong sense of the grandeur of the landscape as well as the strength, dignity and patience of ordinary working people. Many will watch and enjoy the television series “Victorian Farm” (also filmed not far from here in the other direction). This is an accurate and affectionate documentation of a real contemporary rural community. I wish more people were likely to see it.

O'Horten

A Norwegian film, about a train driver, Odd Horten, O’Horten, who retires after nearly forty years of timetables and routine, and finds life opening up before him; not, initially, an inviting prospect, but eventually, after a series of funny, bizarre, sad episodes, some inconsequential, some more significant, he embraces his future and its possibilities. So something that can help with preparation for retirement then, but only if used as part of a carefully planned diet of films. If in doubt, seek medical advice.

It’s beautifully filmed, though, to English eyes, quite, well, odd. For example, the hero sits in his train cab, in a restaurant, on a tram, always puffing contentedly on his pipe; something we all know is illegal. There is a whole shop dedicated to pipes, cigarettes and tobacco. His flat is plainly furnished, in a style most older Brits would know as “utility”. With the exception of the trains and cars, and the occasional household appliance, this could be the nineteen fifties. And there are dreamy sequences of sleek trains speeding through snowy landscapes; something all British people know to be a preposterous fantasy – trains cannot work in such conditions. Also, everywhere seems to be unlocked, even at night; swimming pools, other people’s homes, ski jumps, airports, engine sheds, all open at all times. And it’s very dark all the time.

The experience of the film was enhanced by the experience of the auditorium. A Georgian building, the theatre is very tall, with what would have been shuttered windows, high above the floor, and about ten feet high. The entrance and exit doors are also tall, each one about eight feet high. The seating is basic, but with quite a lot of leg and aisle space. As I sat there looking up at the screen I began to feel rather small, and to wonder if I’d be able to reach the door handle on the way out.

A lovely film, the humour is gentle and sly, some may not like the upbeat ending after all the dark, but, yes, good.

Looking for Eric

The world probably divides on Eric Cantona, into those who think of him as the (only) intelligent footballer, and those who think he’s a pretentious twerp going on about Rimbaud and philosophy and coming out with impenetrable aphorisms. Then there’s another group who are saying “Eric who?”. To his credit in this film he allows gentle fun to be poked at his image, while using it to help Ken Loach create a rather good film that is part social realism and part knock-about comedy. The postman hero and his mates are all great characters, and the climax great fun, but there is depth behind it too. A real feel-good movie, especially on a wet night in Tewkesbury. And remember; when seagulls follow ze boat, it is because they expect zat sardines will be thrown in ze sea… zat is all.

Fugitive Pieces

Excellent treatment of the Anne Michaels novel, written more than ten years ago now. It’s the story of Jakob Beer, from his childhood experiences seeing his family killed by the Nazis in a Polish massacre; found by an archaeologist hiding in a bog; taken to a new life in Greece, and then to Canada. The story ranges over Jakob’s life in an disjointed episodic way, rather like the novel, which flashes back and forth in a series of short paragraphs. Is the film more upbeat than the novel? It’s a long time since I read it and I can’t really remember it. Good, thoughtful, well made film dealing with the themes of memory, understanding and the acquisition of wisdom.

Summer films

You'll get an idea of the standard of summer weather we experienced this year when I tell you that we went to the cinema quite a lot. In various locations, with often small groups of people also sheltering from the rain, watching interesting but obscure movies. I also think that watching more films is a replacement for not being able to read much at the moment (I read one very short novel in three weeks). Some reviews will follow.

Down-sizing news

It's women who are supposed to have the vast wardrobes, and Mrs Demon does have a substantial one, it's true, but I discovered eight pairs of new blue jeans in my section; all new, and unworn. Why? And what am I doing with four pairs of khaki shorts? I've only worn shorts once this year; the other evening, for about an hour.

The downsizing of the wardrobe came about because I sat down to write a blog post. if I sit down to write a blog post, the block sets in, and nothing will come. But, as a displacement activity, I get other stuff done, such as sorting out my wardrobe.

Well, I hear you say, this post seems to be going OK. Which it is. But that's because the writing is itself a displacement activity. I'm supposed to be down at church getting ready for a wedding later today.

While I've been Away

I'd like to write about all the insights I've gained from three weeks away, and all the books I've read, but, the fact is, I've been a bit knackered, and the reading and writing blocks have continued, and tonight is the first time I've touched a keyboard with serious intent. I did start a book this afternoon, but i also switched the radio on to Test Match Special, and the instant I did so, Broad started to cut a swathe through the Aussie batting, so, of course, I couldn't then turn it off, could I?

Now where was I?, Oh yes, while I've been away.

While I’ve been away I’ve been exploring a bit more of the possible alternative spiritual homes, or at least spiritual bus shelters, that might find space for me come next year. Not easy.

I’ve always had a lot of time for the Quakers, even though some of their pacifist activists are amongst the most angry people I’ve ever met. We used to go off on peace actions at US bases, pinning little white doves on fences, and I got the impression that if some of the little old ladies could get their hands on a soldier they might do serious harm. There is a Meeting House near here, goes back several centuries and run in family hands throughout its history. We had a good talk over coffee. I said how impressed I was that they managed to get a mention in a Guardian editorial in praise of their stand on same sex partnerships. It was good, I said, that a religious group was prepared to take a courageous stand, without, it would appear, worrying about the consequences on membership and recruitment, or adverse press and media criticism. It was a shame, they said, that so many people were willing to come ot meetings as attenders, but that full membership was dwindling and getting older. Don’t look at me, I said; I’m not up for joining things, or propping up any organization; I’ll come clean and say I’m only in it for the peace and quiet of the worship. I don’t need any more meetings.

I went to Orthodox vespers. Wonderful. Christianity with its roots showing. The music seems to come straight from some ancient desert place. Unfortunately, vespers always ends with a little Orthodox sermonette, in which the priest reminds you of various sins and heresies you have been unwittingly committing for most of your life. And don’t expect compromise, or the search for common ground; unity of Christians will be achieved only when everyone becomes Orthodox once again. Like that’s going to happen any time soon.

I went to a Roman Catholic mass that same week, and an Anglican eucharist. That’s the three major schisms covered in one week. Oh well. After all, as someone didn't say, the Church of England is the worst possible denomination, except for all the others.

My tai chi group starts again next week.

Four seasons

A friend and I were speculating on the future of seasons, now that global warming has kicked in. We decided that there are still four seasons; but they are all autumn.

There's Warm Autumn (with leaves), which is the present season. This is followed by Warm Autumn (Without Leaves) from October until early December; then Cool Autumn (Without Leaves) lasting through til about March; and Cool Autumn (With Leaves) from March until about June. Then its Warm Autumn again.

Whaddya think?

Now, where was I?

Oh yes, I remember. Here we are, back again. The clothes are over the bannisters, drying. Lots of khaki jeans and waterproof trousers. looks like we're just back from Afghanistan.

Gone Cruising

As the rain continues to lash down, and flu stalks the land, two intrepid boaters prepare their vessel for a journey down the Severn starting tomorrow. Those who know our track record for weather conditions while boating are best advised to stay in doors. Back later.

We have a spare room

We have a spare room! We had one in 1983, and now we've got one again. The Dude having moved out, we can really get cracking on our down-sizing. What was his room is now largely clear, and will be used as a transit area for boxes. Next to that, we now have a spare room. this is a spare room in the original meaning of the term; a room which is spare; none of our clutter of years left in it; basic furniture, a bed, chair, wardrobe and dressing table. Any single guests coming to Demon Towers in the next few months will get the chance to use it. I love it. i go and sit in it. It's very peaceful, like a room in a traditional bed and breakfast, or a good retreat house.

While unending ages run

Two cathedral services on consecutive Sundays; that's some kind of record for me these days. the seond one was an ordination, and much better than the previous event. OK, the vestments had seen better days, and one of the senior clerics looked like he was wrapped in the living room carpet; and the sermon was, shall we say, a little retro- one wondered if the developments in ministerial theory and practice of the last forty years had actually happened. Also, there was major restoration and stonework going on, so the chancel was full of red and white cones and plastic barriers, festooned with health and safety notices, so it was a bit like worshipping on an M25 contraflow; but hey!we all had a great time, all the candidates were radiant, the sun shone and we were out in just over an hour and a half!

Consubstantial coeternal

I went off to the cathedral for the bishop's farewell. They are often very moving occasions. I remember one where, at the end of a wonderful service, the bishop simple took off his beautiful colourful vestments, and left the building informally just in his white alb, holding hands with his wife smiling and chatting. (Free at last! Free at Last! Thank God, free at last!) I was hopeful of something like this, but was somewhat disappointed.

On arrival, the organ was already thundering. Now I'm OK with most organ music, and I like quiet organ background when people are coming in, so that we can get ready for worship quietly. This guy had all the stops out already. This meant that the assembling congregation greeted one another with cheery bellowing, and yelled at their friends across the aisles. Boys with their toys. A small man with a big organ. This did not put me in a good mood for what followed.

We went along at a cracking pace to start with. This was encouraging, as I don't like the current Anglican trend that if something is considered important, it must take a long time. The sermon was amazing, preached by the outgoing bishop, but all about priorities for the future, as if he had only just arrived, rather than he was finishing in two days time.

When we got to the offertory, things took a turn for the worse. As well as the customary elements of bread and wine for the eucharist, and the collected offerings of the people, a set of garden furniture appeared. The bishop, in full eucharist vestments,was seated rather self-consciously on a cedarwood recliner, with his wife sitting awkwardly beside him. Speeches of appreciation then began. Cheques were handed over. More thanks. Then a reply by the bishop. One and half hours, and we had not yet reached the consecration.

Things slowed to a crawl. Even in a parish church the Anglican way of distributing communion can take a long time. In a cathedral it can seem like an eternity. At one point a woman with a small crying baby went past. Blimey, I thought. people are being born and dying while we're all in here!

After more than two hours I'd almost lost the will to live. At the end, against a background of blaring organ, everyone was lining up to leave by one door, and having a word with the retiring couple on the way out, like one of those wedding receptions where everyone is filing in to the marquee, dying for a drink, but you have to say hello to the happy couple and the parents first. It was going to take at least another half an hour to get out that way, so I scouted round the back and found another exit, out into the cloisters for some air, and a bit of peace and quiet.

I got picked up by the Mormons

Oh missus! That must have been painful! Make your eyes water, that would! Yes, yes, enough. I really was subject to an evangelistic approach by the Latter Day Saints. On Peterborough station in broad daylight. It was bit creepy, because the guy was young, American, and quite hunky. i thought at first this was some kind of bold-as-brass gay pick-up thing. Then I noticed the LDS label on his shirt pocket. By then we were already into the routine. It went like this.

Hunky Latter Day Saint Evangelist- That's a nice hat.
Me- Thank you.
HLDSE- Is it foreign?
Me- No, it's English. It's an Osprey.
HLDSE- It suits you.
Me- Thanks.
HLDSE- Do you think about God at all?
Me- Some.
HLDSE- Would you like to see my church?
Me- No, I'm getting this train to Birmingham New Street.
HLDSE- So am I!
Me- But I'm going to be in a different carriage. Goodbye.

Hit any key to continue

I think my computer got a virus. Probably the swine flu again. But it's OK now. Or at least I've found a way to live with it. So there's a few posts to come before Mrs Demon and I take to the waterways for a bit of a cruise next Monday. Oink! Oink!

Oh Mr Porter!

I'm about to consign my mortal body into the hands of Britain's rail franchise operators, to travel from the hilly wet bit to the flat sunny bit. Then several hours in one of our lovely cathedrals for an ordination service. More next week, if I survive.

A day of reflection

It is, finally, hot and sunny up here. We have had grey and rain for days while many of you have been basking. I have felt left out of the weather forecasts since about the beginning of last week. There are lies, damned lies, statistics, and weather forecasts.

I'm not sure if there's any kind of record for the number of anniversaries on or about one day, but this is my record day, or, strictly speaking, two days. Yesterday was the fortieth anniversary of my attending selection for Church of England ministry. About 20 of us were locked away in a conference centre in Northumberland. I remember watching bits of the Investiture of the Prince of Wales on a colour TV in the lounge (we didn't have a colour TV at home). Yesterday was also the day when I was ordained as a deacon, thirty six years ago. Thirty five years ago today I was ordained a priest, and twenty seven years ago yesterday the Dude was born, rather earlier than expected.

At the moment I'm in a darkened room, thinking. I had planned to write about all of this, as part of the purpose of this blog, but the energy levels are so low, it's not really coming. Today is quiet. yesterday was supposed to be, but wasn't. We have another suicide to cope with, the second in the parish in three weeks, though not as dramatic as the first. The events are unconnected. But people are feeling very raw. Members of our ministry team were involved in the discovery. So rather than having time to dwell on the past, I'm busy dealing with the present and trying to support them.

As always, clergy celebrate their anniversaries at the same time as new clergy are being ordained, and I'm getting ready to haul myself over to the other side of the country for an ordination service this coming weekend.

It's luurrve 2

The SMD also loves the Magic Bus. While Mrs Demon was on night duty we snuck off for a night up in the hills, just the two of us. Whenever I open the bus doors, to put things away, or just to let the heat out, the SMD is in there, looking expectant; "Come on! Let's go on a trip!" If I fail to start up and drive off, she stays there anyway, sprawled out on the rug (she also loves rugs).

It's luurrve

The SMD is in love. We can't get past the Little Pub with the Big Brewer because SMD has fallen for the pub dog in a big way. And he's a big dog; nearly one year old, a very large black Labrador. The SMD likes black dogs. She plays very well with her brothers when she sees them. She likes lots of other black things too, such as her bed, her chewy toy dogs and cats, and my shoes. But the love she holds for the big Labrador is something else. We are dragged down the road to the pub, and then she's jumping up at the doors and windows in case she can get a glimpse of her beloved; dragging us through the door if it's open, and scratching if it's shut. Now, as regular readers will be aware, I am not entirely unknown to the staff and customers at the Little Pub. But I'm not in there all the time. And not at nine in the morning. I've had a few sideways glances on my way up the street, I can tell you.

What I learnt from my radio this week

That the humanoid voice that does the announcements on trains and the tube is called Sonia. Because she gets SONIA nerves! Geddit? A good little piece on Radio 4 Today programme, about the introduction of philosophy quotations by tube drivers making announcements about delays, etc. "There's more to life than increasing speed" said Gandhi. "The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected". Does this help? Or does it make you "want to cave her head in", as one passenger said?

"The only reason for time is so that everything doesn't happen at once," said Einstein.

"If things are not going well," said Arthur Smith, "Remember the words of Lothian Council; Mondays and Fridays are rubbish days"

What time is it?

And why does it appear that I'm writing this at four in the morning? For the past eighteen months I've been trying to figure out how the clock works on Blogger. It's actually lunchtime.

Malformed or illegal request

When I post from the office computer a big message from Google comes up saying "Malformed or Illegal Request". This doesn't happen on the laptop upstairs. The posts are posted normally either way. I don't know what it means but here's another one.

What I didn't learn from my emails today

We have a new bishop, announced with great fanfares and flummery to a small crowd in the market square. The email to "undisclosed recipients" seemed to suggest that we should all go along and have sandwiches and join the press conference. Goodness knows who or how many received this. The Church of England always seems to think that the world is hanging on its every word and waiting with baited breath for its announcements, but, sad to say, this has not been my experience. Apart from the two archbishops and, perhaps, Durham and London, nobody seems much bothered who the new bishops are, and the names won't mean much to most people, except present colleagues and their mates and families.

Then "undisclosed recipients" got another message saying that there would be "plenty of room" so do come along. Oh dear.

What I didn't learn from my emails was what I really wanted to know, which was the man's name. If he's going to be my bishop, it would be nice to be informed. Another email arrived, warning of the need to protect our silverware and our lead flashing, with a note at the bottom to the effect that if we wanted to know the name of the new bishop, it would be on the diocesan website shortly. Well thanks.

What I learnt from my emails today

We got our directives on swine flu today, telling us what to do if the pandemic really kicks off. Wash your hands after touching parishioners, if any members of the congregation start coughing and sneezing, take them out immediately and dispose of them properly, that sort of thing (no, not really, silly!) I had Hong Kong flu in 1968. I had just left school and started work. I was in bed for three weeks; never felt so rough. But I taught myself to play the guitar while I was sitting there. So that's good.

Happy Now

I'm reading Charlie Higson's novel, "Happy Now", which is a generally unpleasant read, but may ultimately, I hope, prove satisfying, exploring as it does the search for happiness and fulfilment (and the false hopes along the way). Despite all that has happened, I stopped the "happy pills" ten days ago (just when everything kicked off) and have stayed off them. So that's good. I'm feeling positive about my work in the town. So that's good. And I'm thinking about the things that I think are good. So that's good too.

1,000,000 United Against BNP

In the meantime, here's a link to 1,000,000 United Against BNP, a fast-growing Facebook group. There's over 550,000 members so far, and you might consider helping it to grow even faster.

For fear of something worse

The funeral over, people seem to expect what the Americans call "closure". Except that such a thing is very unlikely when the event is almost inexplicable in any reasonable terms. Also, it is clear that, bad though it was, many were afraid of something worse; but then even relief brings feelings of guilt. Mix in some anger, and you have a heady mixture. It wouldn't be so bad if things were uniformly awful, but mixed in are some really very happy events, that again bring on feelings of guilt, and the thought that we shouldn't be enjoying ourselves "at a time like this". Others have simply removed themselves from the local scene for a time, unable or unwilling to engage with the hopeless task of trying to make sense of things. On Wednesday, after the funeral, I did the same, and too off in the Bus for 24 hours. Staring across the hills from a Neolithic stone circle at least restores some sort of perpective on time, that so-called great healer.

I'm coming round

Oooff!! What a week, but I'm coming round. You'd think that after years of experience I'd be ready for this sort of stuff, but no. But, as they say, where bad things happen, good things are not far \away. Met some really great people and able to forge some good new relationships with people in the community. But people are very shaken, and it will take time to heal wounds.

Falling into a TV drama

Shortly after the incident described in my last post, something so unpleasant, so disturbing happened, that I foundf I just couldn't write about it. This is partly because I don't want to give details away that identify me and this place, but also because for a time I was unable to gather any thoughts that made sense of what had just happened. Sometimes people's reaction to extreme events is to say that it was like finding yourself in an episode of Jonathan Creek or Midsomer Murders. Well, it was just like that. In fact, if someone had come up with this as a plot line, I'd have probably said it was implausible. But it happened. And it shook me. And I'm just coming round again.

Table Manners

We have a eucharist in church on Friday mornings. it's market day, and people are arou nd , and seven or eight of us usually gather in the prayer chapel. This Firday there were two visitors in church. he introduced himself as a retired minister. He asked if there was a service and I said yes, do please join us. I didn't say that it wasn't me taking the service.

When we began, as soon as they saw that a woman was presiding, their demeanour changed, and when it came to communion, they stayed seated with arms resolutely folded and refuksed to receive. As the celebrant left, the woman said, audibly, "Well that was disappointing!"

What sort of people are these, to be so rude, to be offered the fellowship of our table, and then refuse it? Do they go to people's homes and refuse to eat what is put in front of them? Do they want to know in advance who has prepared it? Shame on you both.

My Lord, what a morning! 2

A million people vote for fascism, and what is the Church doing? Arguing about the furniture. Well, it is here, at least. The nave altar again. Where to put it, when to move it, what occasions to use, when not to use it. The big change - eastward facing altar of sacrifice to westward facing table of fellowship - has already been achieved, without too much bloodshed, thirty years ago. Same table, you see, and only a few feet either way. But a different table, some thirty feet away... it's a step too far. Most of you haven't a clue what I'm on about, have you? And I do wonder myself.

Some years ago the BNP threatened to march through the city where I worked. i was the Chair of the local Racial Equality Council. We organised to oppose the march. Some, not all, of the churches joined us. The march was called off.

One morning I got a phone call from a bored-sounding policeman.

- Don't want to alarm you, sir, he said.
-I'm already alarmed, I replied.
-Might be a good idea to check under your car in the morning. And don't open suspicious packages. Just as a precaution, you understand.
- Sure, I said.

I had got myself onto a white supremacist death list, apparently. Nothing came of it, of course. I'm still here.

I used to work in a sector ministry, which the Church of England, in its genteel way, called "social responsibility" The Catholics, more direct, called their guys "justice and peace workers". Anyway, one time I was booked to speak to a deanery group in a town in the north west of England. There had been riots, racially motivated, for several days; cars burned, barricades, that sort of thing. The day of the meeting the rural dean rang me and told me that I was not required to attend, that the meeting had been cancelled. Nothing on the agenda.

My Lord, what a morning!

Yesterday it was bucketing down all day. The choir chose to sing the Negro spiritual "My Lord, what a morning!" as we shivered and rung out our coats and stashed our umbrellas at the back of church.

Today; another morning. i seem to live in a country where nearly a million voters are prepared to vote for a party defined only by what it is against, what it would destroy, what it wants to stop. No positive agenda at all. The British Nasty Party might make you feel better in the short term, but it won't do you any good in the long term.

They came for the Jews, and I said nothing, because I am not a Jew. They came for the blacks, and again, I said nothing, because I am not black. They came for the communists, and again i said nothing, because I am not a communist. then one night, they came for me. And there was no-one left to speak up for me.

The Dude moves on

Well, what about that. The Dude has found himself a place of his own. Sounds good too. Don't think of it as losing a son, more as regaining a garage as the motorbikes leave.

Free the Spirit

Anglicans letting their hair down always look slightly awkward. The congregation this morning at our united deanery celebration tried their best to say "Hey, look at us, we're relaxed, happening dudes!" but the fact that a lot of the men were in suits and ties on a stinking hot day didn't help. But... a cracking sermon from our bishop, though. I know you don't read that often on this blog, so I'll say it again; a good sermon by our bishop. Here is the gist of it.

Pentecost celebrates the gift of the Holy Spirit, poured out on the disciples in tongues of fire and a howling wind. Strange things were happening. People from many different nationalities understood one another. How could this be? It was because they communicated in one or other of the universal languages; of tears, because we all know what suffering is like; of laughter and fooling around, because being funny is something we can all appreciate; of music, because we can all recognise a tune; or of creativity, because we can all enjoy colour and shape and design. It is words that divide us. It is ideas, theories and doctrines that drown us.

If only the rest of us could have come up to scratch. Two people walked out, appalled by free liturgy. The rest of us tried hard to relax. I remember the Private Eye spoof Church of England liturgical rubric; If a spontaneous act is to take place, it should happen at this point.

A little dog ran in during the sermon. It trotted round, wagging its tail and thinking what fun it would be to play with all these people. A sidesperson collared it and threw it out.

The SMD Genome Project

So we can now breed monkeys that glow in the dark. this could be a handy trait to have. Trying to find a black dog on a dark night is not easy. I know. I could do with a little help, such as luminous paws, or a glow-in-the-dark tail. And now that we have mapped the human genome, and the mouse genome, how about someone doing the Small Manageable Dog genome? And maybe they'd be able to tell us what proportion of the SMD's genes are devoted to
- sniffing out small animals
- digging holes
- burying things

How good is that!?

How good is that!? My everloving second son sent me the DVD of the Reggis Perrin remake! Now I can watch it and give you all my considered opinion. Thanks son!

Forty seven million year old fossil found

Scientists have discovered a second forty seven million year old fossil primate. This time the ancient hominid was found in a small country parish. He has just been re-elected as a churchwarden for another year.

I live with a serial killer

I am pleased to see that numbers of the dormouse are increasing in all parts of the country, except, for some reason, in certain parts of the Welsh borders ....

Magic Bus rides out!

My birthday is now past! Next one will be the Big Six-Oh! We set the year off in style, taking the Magic Bus over to the coast, and spending the day, and the night, at Ynyslas, in the wonderful sand dunes there. The weather was gorgeous, the bus was comfortable, the crowds dispersed, and we had a great time on the beach, looking out over the Dyfi estuary. Spring tides promised some excitement as the water came up, and stopped three feet from the vehicles! Tai Chi on the shore on Monday made this the perfect day. As a test run for these ageing hippies, it was five star.

Countdown continues

367 days until my birthday. Off to the seaside in the Magic Bus. Serious downsizing begins when we get back.

Is the new Reggie Perrin any good?

While I wonder how my lump sum is going to last me until I'm ninety when the same sum would keep Fred Goodwin in the manner to which he has become accustomed for about half an hour ... the question i'm really wrestling with is, "Is the new Reggie Perrin any good?" and following from that; why did David Nobbs feel the need to remake it, apart from the need to boost his lump sum to something more like Goodwin proportions; and is Martin Clunes REALLY Reggie? I'm still not sure, and I've missed a couple of episodes, so may have to buy the DVD and do some serious study.

Mr Golightly's Holiday

Just finished my first book in three months. Mr Golightly's Holiday, by Salley Vickers. I had to read much of it several times, and my short term memory is a bit shot, so couldn't remember from one night to the next where I was up to, but it was a good read, and the right book to, hopefully, set me back on track to read, and to do a little writing; hence this post. If there's anyone still out there - hello again.

But not really back

I'm here, but not really back. These are the first words I've written this month. Two weeks of not writing, not reading, not really doing anything very constructive at all. My time away was good, though, and thanks to F for coming to stay with Mrs D. Check out this link for an idea of what we were up to. The little green pills, the big red pills, the sunshine, and especially the SMD, are all helping put me back together again, but I do wonder at the fact that the interventions necessary to keep me going through these last months are coming at ever shorter intervals. At this rate I shall soon be permanently closeted with a room full of therapists.

I'm still here

I'm still here, back from the north lands, where we all had a very good time. The rest of the past week has not been so hot, and yesterday Mrs Demon stetched herself across a pavement and has a suspected broken wrist - but it does mean that she'll be at home for a couple of weeks. Despite that, I should be off to Devon on retreat tomorrow, and that may also iron out the severe writer's block that's taken over at present. More later, perhaps.

Thank you Rabbi Blue!

i should be writing, but don't feel up to it. Let the wonderful Rabbi Lionel Blue express at least some of it on my behalf, in another marvellous radio Thought for the Day. I'm off to see my mother, who sounds like she's fading away; to a reunion with the class of sixty-something, and a retirement "do" and church service, both of which should be filling me with joy but somehow aren't. Maybe next week.

We can all have a silly moment

First pix of the SMD

Plenty of Fluff

Plenty of fluff keeps appearing, and when the SMD loses it, oh boy, can she hurtle and chew with the best of them! If only I had a faster camera. Maybe I’ll try a short video sequence. Anyway, all going well on day four, and Jan Fennell may possibly be a genius. If she could apply her mind to world peace and the economic downturn, we’d all be in a better place.

We are a dog-owner

Yes, the breathless world can stop holding its breath; the SMD has arrived. Currently, it is behaving very well; few little presents on the carpets; trotting outside (into the freezing snow) to do its jobbies; eating tons of food; and sleeping at night with just two quick excursions. So not bad. Also, it is enjoying exploring any room it enters, going round by the walls and under the furniture, and getting into the less frequented parts. This is turning up lots of fluff and bits and pieces that we haven’t seen for a while. It’s rather like having a free-range anti-static duster. If it ever stops still long enough, I’ll take a picture.

The Golden Rule

I must say that I find Karen Armstrong’s notion of spirituality devoid of doctrinal or dogmatic expression is very attractive. The idea of finding common ground between faiths is also attractive. And there have been attempts in the past to find that common ground, but most of them have come to nothing.

One of the greatest stories, retold by Karen Armstrong, concerns the great first century CE Rabbi Hillel:

“A group of pagans approached Rabbi Hillel and told him that they would convert to his faith if he could recite the whole of Jewish teaching while standing on one leg. So Hillel obligingly stood on one leg like a stork and said, ‘Do not do unto others what you would not have done unto you. That is the Torah. The rest is commentary. Go and learn it.’”

Jesus of course said “Do unto others as you have done unto you” but the meaning is the same. The Qu'ran imposes no creed and does not bother with doctrine, in fact, is dismissive of theolgoical speculation. Eastern faiths, especially Buddhism, spend more time on how a person lives, rather than what a person believes. Here, in conversations here with members of our local Wiccan community, I have been reminded more than once of their own version of the Golden Rule; “Save that thou harm none, do what thou wilt”.

As I approach the end of reading “The Spiral Staircase”, the implications of following this Rule, and the implications for people of faith in finding the common ground of this Rule, are both exciting and challenging.

Snow brings everything to a halt

So the snow has brought the country to a standstill. Can't say we've noticed much difference round here. There is no rush hour or morning commute. What buses we have are still running. But meetings and other events have been cancelled, because some people live up long lanes and tracks that are impassable. So I'm enjoying the opportunity to write, to read and to sort the house out a bit more.

Nearly finished "The Spiral Staircase" - what a great book! I'll be posting on this when I've finished it, but it's one of those rare books that i don't want to finish, and could easily start reading from the beginning all over again.

Grey Fox, my "exit consultant", has given me a good idea. She is putting together an anthology of influential pieces - books, prayers, hymns - with a commentary. I'm looking at trying something similar, perhaps with a new blog linked to this one. I'll keep you posted.

P minus seven

Heavy snow, so lots of things not happening or working today. Like London, very little public transport available. Unlike London, we have the same level of public transport that we usually have, and the few buses scheduled are all running through the blizzard. Plenty of time to keep up my reading; "The Spiral Staircase" and "The Dog Listener". There will be a test on the latter when Mrs Demon returns from shifts on Thursday, assuming it is possible to get here. Seven days to puppydom. Hope the dog has read the same books we have.

Another story

One of GL’s stories, told against Welsh chapel-goers:

A Welsh sea-captain was shipwrecked on a desert island. He was there for twenty years, all alone. Eventually a ship came by and saw his smoke signals. They put out a boat and sent a party ashore to rescue him.

When the sailors came ashore they looked around in amazement. The sea captain had built himself a fine house, and there were gardens, and vegetables growing. He was well set up. On one side of the compound were two fine chapels, each with a fine bamboo cross on the roof.

“My word, these are fine chapels!” said the sailors.
“Oh, yes,” said the sea captain, “I am a God-fearing man, and always attend chapel on Sunday.”
“Excellent!” said the sailors, “But, er, why are there TWO chapels? You are the only person on the island!”
“Ah well, you see,” said the sea captain pointing to one of the chapels, “That’s the chapel I don’t go to!”

That reminds me of a story ...

I was restored to a better frame of mind by a visit to the Little Pub with the Big Brewer, in the company of GL. GL is a retired priest who helps us out. He was born and bred in this part of the world, and seems to be related to most people between Bridgnorth and Aberystwyth. Before he was ordained about twenty years ago he was a Lay Reader (an Anglican lay minister) for years before that. Looking back in the service registers, GL’s initials appear as far back as 1965. he has never lost his roots, and never become part of the “clergy club”. He has a fund of stories, is never lost for words, and is generally good company. I always feel better after an hour in his company. Some treat him as a long-winded buffoon, but that is a big mistake. He has great sensitivity and understanding, and especially an understanding for the ordinary people of this area, and great pastoral gifts.

Telling GL of my current “local difficulties” produces a number of anecdotes which involve him taking the wind out of the sails of his “elders and betters”, reminding me that this sort of behaviour has been going on round these parts for a very long time; tweedy churchwardens who tell clergy they are there “to do as they are told”; rude remarks about clergy wives who do their own housework; snide comments on the quality of sermons. All these ways of putting down and taking control have been practiced and honed over years. He helps me get things back in perspective.

That reminds me of a story …

A Bit of a Wobble

So. A bit of a wobble today. Didn't go to the consultation. Couldn't face a Burns Night party either. Will settle down with the books and try to get some sleep this time, as I'm on early in the morning.

New Links

Also used the sleepless time to take a blue pen (or pair of scissors? which simile?) to the Blog Roll and Book Shelf lists. Some of the blogs I haven't looked at for a bit; several have disappeared (!?);some new ones on writing, particularly Stella Duffy, might be interesting. I lurve Lucy Mangan's stuff! An eclectic/eccentric collection, i agree. Don't make too many assumptions about me from these lists (like, I'm not gay, or blonde, or have small children, or am a member of a Catholic religious order or anything). And I enjoy reading them; I don't necessarily agree with them; they make me think. Try one and see what you can find.

Dignity at Work

I see that I haven’t posted under my “roaring” label for a couple of months. Does that mean all is well? Well, no not really. I’m just trying to get on with the rest of my life. Last week a couple of barbed comments after church included the statements “You priests are supposed to be the most caring people in the world, but you don’t care really!” and “You have ruined our church with that thing!” (a nave altar, approved experimentally by a large majority of the church council), plus the inevitable “lots of people feel the same way; I’m the only one who will say anything!” Not easy to relax in people’s company when that sort of thing can come at you out of the blue. Doesn’t make me want to go to a social event, or stick around drinking coffee after Sunday services.

Several things occur to me. First, most of you don’t know me. Maybe I am uncaring. Maybe I really am “lazy”. Perhaps I should just accept that I’m “unpopular”. I can tell you that I say my prayers, put in the hours, prepare worship carefully, follow up pastoral requests, spend time on my sermons, seem to get on well with people. But you don’t know.

And there is inconsistency here too. For example, I don’t think that I can both “force through” unpopular ideas and “railroad” the church council, as well as being “weak and vacillating”. Words like “steam-rolling” generally indicate the attitude of the speaker towards the event, policy or project; no-one describes the idea of a visit to Iona or setting up a childrens holiday club as having been “steam-rollered”, yet it gets far less consideration or discussion than a nave altar. (The words in quotes have all been addressed to me in public or private by members of one congregation during the past year.)

I’ve read through the Church of England report “Dignity at Work”, which came out last year but doesn’t seem to have seen much of the light of day since then. It offers the following definition of “unacceptable behaviour”:

“Any behaviour always involving a misuse of power which an individual or group knows, or ought reasonably to know, could have the potential effect of offending, humiliating, intimidating or isolating an individual or group”.

The suggestions put forward in the report, all about policies and discussions in synods and councils, and the appointment of advisors and arbitrators, are all fine in so far as they go. But at the end of the day, conscientious and caring individuals trying to do difficult and demanding work can be left in very isolated situations amongst people who do not behave well towards them. And, as I’ve said before, it is shameful that the Church is having to take advice from, and use models developed by, secular voluntary organizations and trade unions, when it should instead be offering a beacon of good practice to the world.

At least “Dignity at Work” takes a stronger position than one colleague who I began to talk to about what I was experiencing. He told me “the role of the priest is to be crucified”. I utterly reject that view. I know too that ministers have to be prepared to be “lightning conductors” for all kinds of bad stuff that people project at times of bereavement or crisis; but that should not be given as a general excuse for bad behaviour.

It’s not just me. We have a curate, who has tried out lots of imaginative new ideas and new ways of doing things, only to be told, in effect, we don’t want that sort of thing here. The treasurer said in finance committee that if the council voted to fund her project, he would resign (railroading?) When we had problems with the heating system last year, and when the sound system wasn’t working properly, people were wagging their fingers in the faces of the volunteer church officers responsible for these things. We’re not likely to find replacements for those who quite understandably get fed up with that sort of treatment. It’s time it stopped.

The Spiral Staircase

I have had two nights of insomnia, brain racing, pulse racing, heart pounding, deafening tinnitus. I think the reason is the consultation meeting taking place today. You may know the sort of thing, where an organization invites its members to consider what the organization will look like in five or ten years time. I used to enjoy such occasions, and have facilitated many for community and voluntary organizations. Now, when someone says “Where will we be in 2015?”, my answer is “Walking the dog on a towpath somewhere, heading for the pub, I hope!”. The whole idea of taking part, the groups, the questions, fills me with dread. So I didn’t go.

I'm making rapid progress through "The Dog Listeneer". And I’ve begun to read Karen Armstrong’s memoir “The Spiral Staircase”. Written four or five years ago, it is the story of her life from the point at which she left the enclosed religious order she had joined at the age of seventeen. January 1969. As Karen Armstrong was leaving one religious institution, I was having the first conversations about joining a different one, the Church of England priesthood. I shall enjoy reading her account, and no doubt more discussion of the parallels.

iLove my iPod!

I generally don't get excited about techie things and I know that Apple don't need any help with publicity from me, but how good is an iPod! I love it! I can take my entire music collection with me, in my top pocket, on a train journey, or on the boat, and it's all there to choose from! And "shuffle" is great, because I'm listening to stuff I haven't listened to for ages, and I get surprises with what comes up. I love it!

The Dog Listener

I’m also working hard on the psychology. The canine psychology, that is, with the Dog Listener, Jan Fennell. I’ve got a pile of books to read, and I think there’ll be an exam next week when Mrs D gets back from her shifts. The psychology makes a lot of sense, I have to say, working with the dog as still, essentially, a pack animal descended from the wolf, rather than some sort of furry version of a human child. The idea is to establish that it is you, the human, the owner, who must be the leader of the pack. The four questions each dog owner should ask themselves every day are, apparently:

When the pack reunites after a separation, who is the boss? (Each time you come home)
When the pack goes on a hunt, who is going to lead them? (Each time you go for a walk)
When the pack eats its food, what order do they eat in? (You first, dog next)
When the pack is under attack, who is going to protect them? (That’s you as well)

I hope the SMD has read the same book. Nine days to puppydom.

Doggy Heaven

According to the literature, leaving mother and siblings is an immensely traumatic experience for the young puppy. If that’s the case, then the Small Manageable Dog will at least probably assume that after the trauma it has died and gone to heaven. The front porch is now half full of a massive dog crate, big enough for a St Bernard, which Mrs Demon found last week at the car boot sale. She came back triumphantly with not one, but two, crates. The other will fit in the car and on the boat. Since then she has been busy with the soft furnishings, and the crate is fitted out with a very beautiful set of bedding in lemon yellow with small blue flowers (What? Stop sniggering at the back there!) and there is a big bag of toys, chews, bowls, leads, collars, and pretty much everything else that a puppy could possibly ever think it might need, if it ever thought about it. Ten days to puppydom.

Some of the things I plan to do

Haven’t done a list for ages, so here’s one, of some of the things I plan to do with my years of happy, relaxed and fulfilling retirement:

- Take our boat over the Pennines by canal
- Complete a Sudoku
- Train the dog
- Take a train through India
- Finish the Guardian Quick Crossword
- Write a book
- Get a note or two out of a saxophone

480 days.

W

Missed a private showing of the Oliver Stone film of Dubya’s life and times, set up by Number Two Son. Boo, hiss! I had to get back for a funeral. Mrs Demon and various friends attended. He tells me that I shall probably miss “Frost/Nixon”, because it will get pulled, as only 20 people turned up on the first night, as opposed to 300 for some Hollywood rubbish next door, and “Revolutionary Road” might not stay long either. What is wrong with these people? Got the novel from Waterstones, plus a copy of “Q & A”, Vikram Swarup’s original novel which became “Slumdog Millionaire”, so look forward to reading that.

iDidIt!

Our whole music collection is now copied into iTunes, all 653 albums. Last week Mrs Demon, always with an eye for a bargain, found an iPod Classic, plus free docking station, in a sale offer in town. So last night was spent putting the whole lot in, which apparently is called syncing, a new word I’m not sure I like. Anyway, after only a few glitches, delays, inexplicable twists and turns of capricious fate, the whole system is set up, and our music collection is truly portable. All done by 2 am. It would have been a lot quicker if we’d had a ten year old available. I’m not much for technology, but I do like the iPod; a very beautiful machine.

So, my Cunning Plan is coming together!

The Darjeeling Limited

Another film about India that we watched on DVD. The title is the name of one of India’s long distance trains, and is the story of three brothers finding their mother, each other and themselves. Wes Anderson is a super director, and this is one of those films you immediately want to rewind and watch again, because more will be revealed on the second and third viewings. Great stuff.

Slumdog Millionaire

Wow. What a good film. Go see it if you can. If you liked Oliver Twist, you'll love this! Superbly scripted and plotted. Even though, I have to say, I got many of the plot constructions and twists, it was exciting and entertaining. Beautifully filmed in Mumbai and other parts of India. We watched it with a friend who has spent time in India traveling by train and motorcycle, and it urged us on to go and do the same when we have more time from next year.

Things that Cling 2

I see that writing in the last post “clearing a space upstairs” glosses over rather a lot of preparatory work. The space is the Third Man’s room. You don’t here much about the Third Man, because he lives and works away now. He is away, but a lot of his stuff is still here. But his room is the best one for having enough space to decant all the stuff from the other, crowded rooms, in order to spread it out, sort it , get rid of what we don’t want, and do some packing. It really is going to take a year, working on it off and on. So all the Man’s music equipment (he has virtually set up an recording studio in there) has been packed and sorted to give us the space.

It also means sorting out some of his “other stuff”. The collection of odd socks in one of the drawers. The fifty (there are exactly fifty, I counted them), the fifty Pot Noodle cartons, all washed and neatly stacked in a wobbly tower. By the sink is a yellow car licence plate: J457DAB. Is it yours? Please arrange collection, or it’s going to the tip.

Viva Espaniel!

We can now reveal that as part of the Exit Strategy, we WILL be taking on a dog again, after twenty years without one, and that it WILL be the result of a union between a very sweet border terrier (mum)



and a wonderfully calm and obedient (though randy) working cocker spaniel (dad)



which has produced this delightful bunch ...



... one of whom will be joining us in a few weeks.

Harolldd!!!

I’ve been going around in a Thinsulate hat, fingerless gloves, several jumpers and a body-warmer, plus several other layers that cannot be seen by the casual observer. Nothing unusual in that, but this was inside the house. I came along the upstairs passage, and was surprised to see Albert Steptoe coming the other way. But it was just me, in the wardrobe mirror.

Things that Cling

So we’ve made a start on the down-sizing, clearing an area upstairs for sorting, packing and deciding on disposal. Not an easy project for us to embark upon together, as one of us is a squirrel and the other is an, erm, a, well, an animal that likes to throw things away. But, needs must.

One of the first problems of down-sizing is dealing with the stuff that you know you have to get rid of, but you’ve had it for so long, you really find it hard to make that decision. These are not necessarily things that you use. Or even things that still work. But they are things that have become a part of the background of your life.

The last time I counted, we had six TV sets. This is odd, because we don’t really watch much TV. None of them are much good. Out here the reception is poor, and half the time you can’t see what you’re watching, which is annoying if it’s the one programme that week that you really want to see. In a couple of years, the government tells us, all our tellies will be useless, as they will have switched off the signal. This will include our little black and white portable Sony. It still works with the original aerial, a hoop of wire, stuck in the top. It prefers upstairs to downstairs. It’s thirty-five years old now. We bought it the week Edward Heath got chucked out of Downing Street and Harold Wilson returned. This was soon after we got married. We agonized over buying it, as we thought it might change the way we lived. (It didn’t). For similar reasons, we don’t have a TV on our boat, and don’t plan to get one.

The little Sony set was our only TV for some years, until the boys were born, and we realized that we would have to get a) a bigger screen and b) colour. But we kept the Sony as a back-up. Later it became an early computer monitor, and then a games console. Then it just got forgotten in a cupboard. Out it came last week, and, with a pile of other stuff, we said our goodbyes, and thank yous, and off it went to the tip for recycling.

The Great Frost

The Great Frost, which has recently Afflicted our Nation, causing great Inconvenience and Consternation, has now lifted, to the Relief of the Entire Population. Now Rivers and Streams are swollen with rain, and a Great Wind is blowing, bringing down the trees and Disturbing our Sleep.

Roll on Spring.

Happy New Year 2

So. It is now 500 days until my sixtieth birthday. The Exit Strategy has begun! Having worked out a place to store our stuff we can now begin to think about a life afloat. When the Magic Bus returns from the body shop we’ll have something to use to move things. And then there is matter of the Small Manageable Dog … where a decision is expected any day now.

I broke the news of my not too impending departure to the churchwardens group. No-one threw their hats in the air; no-one burst into tears. This is the countryside, though, and news travels fast. Several people spoke to me after a funeral today, and said that it had come as a surprise, but that they understood. And when I gave them an outline of what we might do, they got quite enthusiastic. So, although “Happy New Year” is being said by many more in hope than expectation, we have a plan, and it’s forward looking, and we’ll keep you in the loop as things develop.

Happy New Year!

Not naturally an optimist, and given the background against which we all live, and despite the cold, I'd like to wish you all a Very Happy New Year! More reflection will follow, together with some attempt at getting a handle on 2009, but that comes later. All the very best, folks!