Wednesday, March 26, 2003
FatSkinny
I see that I have missed the boat on a desirable present from my beloved sister. I am filled with apprehension at the appearance of her photo gallery - God knows what horrific images of our early life she is about to unleash. I had a tear-up session of some of the most unpublishable but she must have hidden a few up her knicker leg! I wonder if she would take money to desist? If my nephew could manage a galleria page for 'Self-winding', I could trade blows.
I see that I have missed the boat on a desirable present from my beloved sister. I am filled with apprehension at the appearance of her photo gallery - God knows what horrific images of our early life she is about to unleash. I had a tear-up session of some of the most unpublishable but she must have hidden a few up her knicker leg! I wonder if she would take money to desist? If my nephew could manage a galleria page for 'Self-winding', I could trade blows.
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Tuesday, March 25, 2003
Out of focus
Stayed in bed trying to shake this chest infection. It's 10pm and I'm nearly blind with reading - two novels devoured between dozing, coughing and listening to war news on Radio 4.
I picked a fat emergency supply of ten books from the mobile van on Monday. The driver loves us, his figures have gone up since I retired and started using him. NO fines, as many books as you like and the useful discipline for me of having to choose in fifteen minutes. Otherwise I dither for hours.
I really found a stunner in Zadie Smith's 'White Teeth', which I have been meaning to buy. Such a brilliant young talent on all counts, wit, characterization, style, pace. The TV dramatisation did not do it justice. Life on the streets of NW London - something I knew a lot about in my time. A lot of the events take place in Willesden Green where I worked for five years, during the early days of its ethnic transformation. I will buy it in paperback anyway, since it's a repeat read par excellence. Here are two punchy pieces by and about her
Then I flew through a fairly average crime novel by Judith Cutler in her DS Kate Power series; it threw up the following paragraph which amazingly mirrored my experience of yesterday.
'The (doctor's) receptionist, for whom the adjective stereotypical might have been coined, responded with an implacable wall of non-co-operation. But Kate had dealt with receptionists before; a very public display of her ID generally worked wonders.
Dr. Smallwood just happened to have a cancellation and Kate was ushered in. Not used to GP's who didn't look up, let alone get up, when she entered a room, she was immediately prejudiced against him. And against whichever medical school had let him loose on the world without teaching him manners. Weren't they supposed to be high on the curriculum these days?
"Good afternoon", she said crisply.........
She was rewarded with a minimalist glance.'
Well she did better than I, anyway!
Dread locks
I heard this mentioned in some programme today and cannot think of any object on earth that I would rather not have than a lock of Graham Norton's hair. Indeed I would pay good money to have it efficiently incinerated. He is on my list of the instantly zappable. Grubby self-important little man. This nauseating image says it all.
Stayed in bed trying to shake this chest infection. It's 10pm and I'm nearly blind with reading - two novels devoured between dozing, coughing and listening to war news on Radio 4.
I picked a fat emergency supply of ten books from the mobile van on Monday. The driver loves us, his figures have gone up since I retired and started using him. NO fines, as many books as you like and the useful discipline for me of having to choose in fifteen minutes. Otherwise I dither for hours.
I really found a stunner in Zadie Smith's 'White Teeth', which I have been meaning to buy. Such a brilliant young talent on all counts, wit, characterization, style, pace. The TV dramatisation did not do it justice. Life on the streets of NW London - something I knew a lot about in my time. A lot of the events take place in Willesden Green where I worked for five years, during the early days of its ethnic transformation. I will buy it in paperback anyway, since it's a repeat read par excellence. Here are two punchy pieces by and about her
Then I flew through a fairly average crime novel by Judith Cutler in her DS Kate Power series; it threw up the following paragraph which amazingly mirrored my experience of yesterday.
'The (doctor's) receptionist, for whom the adjective stereotypical might have been coined, responded with an implacable wall of non-co-operation. But Kate had dealt with receptionists before; a very public display of her ID generally worked wonders.
Dr. Smallwood just happened to have a cancellation and Kate was ushered in. Not used to GP's who didn't look up, let alone get up, when she entered a room, she was immediately prejudiced against him. And against whichever medical school had let him loose on the world without teaching him manners. Weren't they supposed to be high on the curriculum these days?
"Good afternoon", she said crisply.........
She was rewarded with a minimalist glance.'
Well she did better than I, anyway!
Dread locks
I heard this mentioned in some programme today and cannot think of any object on earth that I would rather not have than a lock of Graham Norton's hair. Indeed I would pay good money to have it efficiently incinerated. He is on my list of the instantly zappable. Grubby self-important little man. This nauseating image says it all.
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Monday, March 24, 2003
Eyes down for doctoring.
"Come in". Gazes at venetian blind, avoiding my eye. Silence. No greeting.
"Yes, er, well, I've had a sore throat, a really bad chest for....."
"Allergic to penicillin?" Still hasn't looked at me yet.
"No."
"Dirty phlegm?"
"Er, yes and I have......"
"Amoxycillin, one week." Thump, bang on keyboard. Throws script across desk. Gazes some more at venetian blind.
"I have big cracks inside my nose, they......"
"Mucus. Penicillin will sort it." Dives under desk. Stays down.
"Oh, yes, thank-you. Goodbye."
"Mmmm."
Door closes. I punch wall.
Am I invisible, do I smell? Does this person not know the simple rudiments of polite interaction? It's only a cold, but I have the feeling the manner would be the same if I were anyone and it was something a lot worse.
"Come in". Gazes at venetian blind, avoiding my eye. Silence. No greeting.
"Yes, er, well, I've had a sore throat, a really bad chest for....."
"Allergic to penicillin?" Still hasn't looked at me yet.
"No."
"Dirty phlegm?"
"Er, yes and I have......"
"Amoxycillin, one week." Thump, bang on keyboard. Throws script across desk. Gazes some more at venetian blind.
"I have big cracks inside my nose, they......"
"Mucus. Penicillin will sort it." Dives under desk. Stays down.
"Oh, yes, thank-you. Goodbye."
"Mmmm."
Door closes. I punch wall.
Am I invisible, do I smell? Does this person not know the simple rudiments of polite interaction? It's only a cold, but I have the feeling the manner would be the same if I were anyone and it was something a lot worse.
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Sunday, March 23, 2003
I am poorly. I have the cold to end all colds - I think I have it licked and then it grips my larynx again in steely teeth. I am going to bed. I have taken hot lemon juice and honey and two "NightNurse" tabs. Hurry oblivion, please.
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Thursday, March 20, 2003
Good 'uns via Yahoo Picks
Weight Watching? Confine yourself to eating this stuff and you would be a whippet in a week.
Time Wasting? I'm on my third kaleidoscope already.
People Watching? A modern anthropology.
Weight Watching? Confine yourself to eating this stuff and you would be a whippet in a week.
Time Wasting? I'm on my third kaleidoscope already.
People Watching? A modern anthropology.
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Tuesday, March 18, 2003
My bosom was all aglow
As dear old William McGonagall put it :
?And as the tourist's eye does wander to and fro
From the south side of Salisbury Crags below,
His bosom with admiration feels all aglow
As he views the beautiful scenery in the valley below;
And if, with an observant eye, the little loch beneath he scans,
He can see the wild ducks about and beautiful white swans.
Then, as for Arthur's Seat, I'm sure it is a treat
Most worthy to be seen, with its rugged rocks and pastures green,
And the sheep browsing on its sides
To and fro, with slow-paced strides,
And the little lambkins at play
During the livelong summer day,
Beautiful city of Edinburgh! the truth to express,
Your beauties are matchless I must confess,
And which no one dare gainsay.?
__________________________________________________________________
Five beautiful spring days spent in the fine city of Edinburgh left good memories:
▲ Scots have such good manners, they smile, speak to you unbidden. Accompanying an older person, I was amazed how many people helped us, gave up seats, went the extra mile to make things easy. We had a courtesy bus laid on immediately at the Castle to take us to the top. In the old town a chap leaving a lap-dancing club stopped, quite unsheepishly, to look at our map & put us on the right path! A wonderful old girl with wild hair and a very high-tone Scottish accent swept us up in the street and took us along to ?The Hub? ? a church converted to arts centre and café, and bought us coffee.
▲ A guide chatting at the Castle entrance told us to take a look at William Wallace?s sword. ?Och, that ?Braveheart? ? what travesty? he said ?And you will observe, anyway, that the sword is taller than Mel Gibson by at least six inches?!
▲ St Giles is the only cathedral I have ever encountered that reeked of cooking. Cabbage, actually. There?s a café in the crypt. On the steps outside, a couple were having wedding photos taken, just the two of them and a photographer. As I asked him if I could pass by, he volunteered that they had actually been married for four years, but their original photographs had been lost. The bride was a beautiful girl, but I couldn?t help noticing that her very tight cream sheath dress was now straining a bit at the rear! Contentment, I expect. I took some shots myself from inside the doors.
▲ An Indian meal at Khushis? a legendary cheap, family-run restaurant much loved by students was a real blow-out. Joyce & Jonathon had a fight over who had selected the hottest lamb curry, while I serenely downed my vegetable korma et al. Lots and lots of al.
▲ The spring flowers were in riot ? millions of crocuses massed in all the gardens and squares, daffodils just bursting. Just above Waverley Bridge I sat in the magnificent gardens eating my M&S prawn sandwich among the lunchtime crowds on the benches. The coffee booths were working overtime ? expensive espressos & lattes. As in all cities there were many itinerants and beggars about; one such sat with his rough dog on a grassy slope drinking a cup of coffee that was handed to him, neat in a paper napkin, by a smart looking lady.
▲ Oh how beautiful this city is at night. The different levels are lit and the intervening dark shadows of spires and domes create an exciting theatrical effect.
▲ Of course we said hello to Bobby. Done to death, but it's a great story.
▲ Flora, our Edinburgh friend, arranged a trip to the Trossachs. We set out at eight on a perfect day, and after a good drive through highland scenery we came to Loch Lomond and took the boat out onto glittering morning water. Cormorants flew up, castles sat smugly on the green slopes, the sunlit wash from the boat seemed a joyful lively thing. We stood on deck, hair blowing and laughed and laughed. The reason for Flora?s large satchel bag emerged - smoked salmon sandwiches and drams in a cut glass served in mid-loch! Nothing has tasted so good for a long while.
▲ Dinner at Flora?s is fun. The huge Victorian room, is covered in candles, books, paintings, a huge new pastel of Tam White, a local blues singer is propped up against a chair for viewing. She is involved with a jazz club and fringe music activities in the Festival. She knows so many people in arts, music politics; she is warm, funny and intelligent and still very beautiful. Her son is delightful too. She cooks in a kitchen at the end of the room, so arranged to be always sociable. We had champagne (Spanish) and good red wine, steaks and fresh summer fruit. She played Tommy Smith, then Dexter Gordon and Alex Shaw for my learning benefit. Then she and Jonathon went off into a Bob Dylan haze and no more sense could be got out of them. We got home by taxi about 1 am. I want to be Flora.
▲I took in most of the major galleries, including the Dean Gallery with its Dada and Surrealist collection (totally unintelligible to Joyce who took herself off muttering to the cafe after five minutes). There was a fabulous Byron exhibition on at the Scottish Portrait Gallery, looking at the literary gent as icon and sex symbol over the years. It is true that a line of similar icons has stretched out from that first "mad, bad and dangerous to know" figure. "Byron has dominated the 20th century literary cult of social disdain". viz Tennyson, Rupert Brooke, Ted Hughes, Martin Amis.
At the National Gallery there are some magnificent pictures. Rembrandt, Rubens and a wonderful Dutch group. I took my time over them. But it was the Scottish paintings that were the revelation, exquisite, mostly unknown to me. One discovery was Phoebe Traquair whose embroideries are stunning. Arts and crafts again!
▲
Oh ye'll tak' the high road
and I'll tak' the low road,
An' I'll be in Scotland before ye',
But wae is my heart until we meet again
On the Bonnie, bonnie banks
O' Loch Lomond.......................a guide told us this was written by a man waiting to be executed. His friend was with him, but had escaped the death penalty and was returning to Scotland. The legend is that as a Scot dies, his soul takes the low road straight to his homeland. The condemned boy wrote this song for his friend, for he believed that he himself would reach home before him. A sad note to close.
As dear old William McGonagall put it :
?And as the tourist's eye does wander to and fro
From the south side of Salisbury Crags below,
His bosom with admiration feels all aglow
As he views the beautiful scenery in the valley below;
And if, with an observant eye, the little loch beneath he scans,
He can see the wild ducks about and beautiful white swans.
Then, as for Arthur's Seat, I'm sure it is a treat
Most worthy to be seen, with its rugged rocks and pastures green,
And the sheep browsing on its sides
To and fro, with slow-paced strides,
And the little lambkins at play
During the livelong summer day,
Beautiful city of Edinburgh! the truth to express,
Your beauties are matchless I must confess,
And which no one dare gainsay.?
__________________________________________________________________
Five beautiful spring days spent in the fine city of Edinburgh left good memories:
▲ Scots have such good manners, they smile, speak to you unbidden. Accompanying an older person, I was amazed how many people helped us, gave up seats, went the extra mile to make things easy. We had a courtesy bus laid on immediately at the Castle to take us to the top. In the old town a chap leaving a lap-dancing club stopped, quite unsheepishly, to look at our map & put us on the right path! A wonderful old girl with wild hair and a very high-tone Scottish accent swept us up in the street and took us along to ?The Hub? ? a church converted to arts centre and café, and bought us coffee.
▲ A guide chatting at the Castle entrance told us to take a look at William Wallace?s sword. ?Och, that ?Braveheart? ? what travesty? he said ?And you will observe, anyway, that the sword is taller than Mel Gibson by at least six inches?!
▲ St Giles is the only cathedral I have ever encountered that reeked of cooking. Cabbage, actually. There?s a café in the crypt. On the steps outside, a couple were having wedding photos taken, just the two of them and a photographer. As I asked him if I could pass by, he volunteered that they had actually been married for four years, but their original photographs had been lost. The bride was a beautiful girl, but I couldn?t help noticing that her very tight cream sheath dress was now straining a bit at the rear! Contentment, I expect. I took some shots myself from inside the doors.
▲ An Indian meal at Khushis? a legendary cheap, family-run restaurant much loved by students was a real blow-out. Joyce & Jonathon had a fight over who had selected the hottest lamb curry, while I serenely downed my vegetable korma et al. Lots and lots of al.
▲ The spring flowers were in riot ? millions of crocuses massed in all the gardens and squares, daffodils just bursting. Just above Waverley Bridge I sat in the magnificent gardens eating my M&S prawn sandwich among the lunchtime crowds on the benches. The coffee booths were working overtime ? expensive espressos & lattes. As in all cities there were many itinerants and beggars about; one such sat with his rough dog on a grassy slope drinking a cup of coffee that was handed to him, neat in a paper napkin, by a smart looking lady.
▲ Oh how beautiful this city is at night. The different levels are lit and the intervening dark shadows of spires and domes create an exciting theatrical effect.
▲ Of course we said hello to Bobby. Done to death, but it's a great story.
▲ Flora, our Edinburgh friend, arranged a trip to the Trossachs. We set out at eight on a perfect day, and after a good drive through highland scenery we came to Loch Lomond and took the boat out onto glittering morning water. Cormorants flew up, castles sat smugly on the green slopes, the sunlit wash from the boat seemed a joyful lively thing. We stood on deck, hair blowing and laughed and laughed. The reason for Flora?s large satchel bag emerged - smoked salmon sandwiches and drams in a cut glass served in mid-loch! Nothing has tasted so good for a long while.
▲ Dinner at Flora?s is fun. The huge Victorian room, is covered in candles, books, paintings, a huge new pastel of Tam White, a local blues singer is propped up against a chair for viewing. She is involved with a jazz club and fringe music activities in the Festival. She knows so many people in arts, music politics; she is warm, funny and intelligent and still very beautiful. Her son is delightful too. She cooks in a kitchen at the end of the room, so arranged to be always sociable. We had champagne (Spanish) and good red wine, steaks and fresh summer fruit. She played Tommy Smith, then Dexter Gordon and Alex Shaw for my learning benefit. Then she and Jonathon went off into a Bob Dylan haze and no more sense could be got out of them. We got home by taxi about 1 am. I want to be Flora.
▲I took in most of the major galleries, including the Dean Gallery with its Dada and Surrealist collection (totally unintelligible to Joyce who took herself off muttering to the cafe after five minutes). There was a fabulous Byron exhibition on at the Scottish Portrait Gallery, looking at the literary gent as icon and sex symbol over the years. It is true that a line of similar icons has stretched out from that first "mad, bad and dangerous to know" figure. "Byron has dominated the 20th century literary cult of social disdain". viz Tennyson, Rupert Brooke, Ted Hughes, Martin Amis.
At the National Gallery there are some magnificent pictures. Rembrandt, Rubens and a wonderful Dutch group. I took my time over them. But it was the Scottish paintings that were the revelation, exquisite, mostly unknown to me. One discovery was Phoebe Traquair whose embroideries are stunning. Arts and crafts again!
▲
Oh ye'll tak' the high road
and I'll tak' the low road,
An' I'll be in Scotland before ye',
But wae is my heart until we meet again
On the Bonnie, bonnie banks
O' Loch Lomond.......................a guide told us this was written by a man waiting to be executed. His friend was with him, but had escaped the death penalty and was returning to Scotland. The legend is that as a Scot dies, his soul takes the low road straight to his homeland. The condemned boy wrote this song for his friend, for he believed that he himself would reach home before him. A sad note to close.
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Sunday, March 09, 2003
Wings over Scotland
I am off to Edinburgh, Monday until Friday next week, flying up from Stansted. I am taking a neighbour up to see her son who is over from Orkney doing his annual lecture stint at the University. He has rented an apartment for the week and we are his guests. Some heavy sightseeing is in line for me and we will get to spend time with the wonderful Flora. This family friend, a very beautiful woman, has a mad sense of humour and a taste for jazz and fine whisky. It all looks set to be a pretty good few days.
I'm glad to get away from this infernal round of making tea for workmen, hoovering up brickdust and biting my nails in case the kitchen decor I have chosen doesn't hang together. Blimey, it's only a house; how easy it is to obsess about this interior dec's stuff.
Festival
The programme for the Bury St Edmunds Festival 9-25 May has just arrived. There are two jazz musts and a few maybes. Certainly I fancy hearing Andy Sheppard - Learning to Wave and also Karen Sharp, another saxophonist, who is doing a lunchtime concert. The firework finale in the Abbey Gardens stars Humphrey Lyttleton and his band. £13 a ticket, bring your own blanket and hot water bottle!
I am off to Edinburgh, Monday until Friday next week, flying up from Stansted. I am taking a neighbour up to see her son who is over from Orkney doing his annual lecture stint at the University. He has rented an apartment for the week and we are his guests. Some heavy sightseeing is in line for me and we will get to spend time with the wonderful Flora. This family friend, a very beautiful woman, has a mad sense of humour and a taste for jazz and fine whisky. It all looks set to be a pretty good few days.
I'm glad to get away from this infernal round of making tea for workmen, hoovering up brickdust and biting my nails in case the kitchen decor I have chosen doesn't hang together. Blimey, it's only a house; how easy it is to obsess about this interior dec's stuff.
Festival
The programme for the Bury St Edmunds Festival 9-25 May has just arrived. There are two jazz musts and a few maybes. Certainly I fancy hearing Andy Sheppard - Learning to Wave and also Karen Sharp, another saxophonist, who is doing a lunchtime concert. The firework finale in the Abbey Gardens stars Humphrey Lyttleton and his band. £13 a ticket, bring your own blanket and hot water bottle!
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Saturday, March 08, 2003
A.L.I.C.E.
Been sent to Coventry? Got an infectious disease? Never mind, have a chat with one-eyed Alice she's always ready to oblige.
Been sent to Coventry? Got an infectious disease? Never mind, have a chat with one-eyed Alice she's always ready to oblige.
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Thursday, March 06, 2003
Scolopax rusticola
At dusk I was picking up and stacking scattered branches from the big ash tree. A single sharp cry above made me snap my head back fast & look up. I am full of happiness to see that the woodcock is back in flight over the garden. He is early this year. This flight, known as 'roding' is the beginning of courtship activity; we are extremely lucky to be on the 'flight path', for not many people round here have seen it. (Believe me, some of the bastards would blast him out of the sky and eat him on toast if they could. They are heavily hunted by wildfowlers - a curse on them for killing such a beautiful thing).
I first saw the roding here three years ago, the bird is easily recognized - the sound of his cry precedes him and the long beak is visible as he arcs overhead. In about May he will begin to be accompanied by the female. I always call to him as he passes over and back - sometimes as often a six flights an evening, and it is my conceit that he hears me and comes over my head wherever I am in the garden.
I am so relieved to see him, as many bird species are absent here now. Up until two years ago we always had a marvellous nightingale season in late spring each year - full throated serenades that went on for hours. No more, and I don't know why, the habitat of thorn thickets is still there, but they do not come.
Artomat
'Ker-plunk!The experience of pulling the knob alone is quite
a thrill, but you also walk away with an original
work of art. What an easy way to
become an art collector.'
At dusk I was picking up and stacking scattered branches from the big ash tree. A single sharp cry above made me snap my head back fast & look up. I am full of happiness to see that the woodcock is back in flight over the garden. He is early this year. This flight, known as 'roding' is the beginning of courtship activity; we are extremely lucky to be on the 'flight path', for not many people round here have seen it. (Believe me, some of the bastards would blast him out of the sky and eat him on toast if they could. They are heavily hunted by wildfowlers - a curse on them for killing such a beautiful thing).
I first saw the roding here three years ago, the bird is easily recognized - the sound of his cry precedes him and the long beak is visible as he arcs overhead. In about May he will begin to be accompanied by the female. I always call to him as he passes over and back - sometimes as often a six flights an evening, and it is my conceit that he hears me and comes over my head wherever I am in the garden.
I am so relieved to see him, as many bird species are absent here now. Up until two years ago we always had a marvellous nightingale season in late spring each year - full throated serenades that went on for hours. No more, and I don't know why, the habitat of thorn thickets is still there, but they do not come.
Artomat
'Ker-plunk!The experience of pulling the knob alone is quite
a thrill, but you also walk away with an original
work of art. What an easy way to
become an art collector.'
| Permanent link
Tuesday, March 04, 2003
Angry boy
Went to hear Tom McRae at UEA on Sunday evening. Not crammed with people, but a wildly enthusiastic audience. He sang most of the new album "Just Like Blood", the sound was amazing - vibrating collarbones! Using such a strong cello as a backing element is unusual and works very well - emphasising the emotional line. He sang strong and true - he's certainly going places - a quality lyric writer who hits straight at the mind while grabbing the heart. All he needs to do is relax a bit on the political chat, it's the source of his edge but it gets wearing in performance. I haven't felt such a pull to a performer for years.
Amazon.co.uk reviews
Went to hear Tom McRae at UEA on Sunday evening. Not crammed with people, but a wildly enthusiastic audience. He sang most of the new album "Just Like Blood", the sound was amazing - vibrating collarbones! Using such a strong cello as a backing element is unusual and works very well - emphasising the emotional line. He sang strong and true - he's certainly going places - a quality lyric writer who hits straight at the mind while grabbing the heart. All he needs to do is relax a bit on the political chat, it's the source of his edge but it gets wearing in performance. I haven't felt such a pull to a performer for years.
Amazon.co.uk reviews
| Permanent link
Monday, March 03, 2003
Untypically Sunday thoughts
I really think I ought to go to church sometimes. I really think I want to.
I mean the good old village 'hymns & a sermon' jobs, not special cathedral treats. It's yet another bit of discipline that I have allowed to relax over the years. I do say my prayers and ponder my frailties. Sunday morning bath-time is accompanied by a singalong to the radio church service; I listen to loads of sacred music - plainsong, Schutz, Byrd, Monteverdi et al. The New Testament figures in my reading (but very rarely the Old). All relatively easy stuff. So, consider Commandment Number 3.
This has been provoked by a stroll through the village this morning, seeing the congregation leave after communion service. Five or six families, several old ladies in tidy coats and hats, solitary older men, a bevy of teenagers, a posse of the middle aged, a few interesting locals. They streamed down the path chatting, stopping in groups, laughing and animated. It looked what? Well, nice, so help me, I really wanted to be among them. I will get up and go next Sunday. And furthermore, I'll walk there.
Battleground God
While on religion, this intelligently probing quiz certainly makes one think about the inconsistencies of one's moral opinions.
I really think I ought to go to church sometimes. I really think I want to.
I mean the good old village 'hymns & a sermon' jobs, not special cathedral treats. It's yet another bit of discipline that I have allowed to relax over the years. I do say my prayers and ponder my frailties. Sunday morning bath-time is accompanied by a singalong to the radio church service; I listen to loads of sacred music - plainsong, Schutz, Byrd, Monteverdi et al. The New Testament figures in my reading (but very rarely the Old). All relatively easy stuff. So, consider Commandment Number 3.
This has been provoked by a stroll through the village this morning, seeing the congregation leave after communion service. Five or six families, several old ladies in tidy coats and hats, solitary older men, a bevy of teenagers, a posse of the middle aged, a few interesting locals. They streamed down the path chatting, stopping in groups, laughing and animated. It looked what? Well, nice, so help me, I really wanted to be among them. I will get up and go next Sunday. And furthermore, I'll walk there.
Battleground God
While on religion, this intelligently probing quiz certainly makes one think about the inconsistencies of one's moral opinions.