Ripping yarn

I wanted to post a picture of Fidelio with her spinnaker close-hauled like a foresail. I took it on Saturday afternoon as we zoomed along at almost 7 knots (I love the new log - it works!) moments before it split asunder. Then it ripped even more as Rob struggled to pull it in, ripping the chute as well in the process. To complete the trio of disasters, Rob's hat blew off into the water and we had to do a nifty manoeuvre to recover it - all of which would have made much more exciting photos, but since the camera to computer lead has disappeared into the impenetrable maw of this house, the moment is lost. update: Mrs Blethers kindly lent me a lead so I have the photo after all.

We got the feeling Fidelio was trying to tell us something and indeed she was. According to the specs, top speed for a Freedom 21 is about 6 knots, but since we've never had a working log before we hadn't a clue that we were pushing her too hard. Poor baby.

This 'n' that

The biology exam was as bad as I feared - three hours in a stuffy room and lots of horribly complicated scientific words to mispronounce. My lovely student kindly corrects me if I get it wrong - I sometimes wonder who's the one with dyslexia! She even anticipates spelling problems such as 'xylem' (my computer doesn't know that either - I'm worried!) by telling me about the 'x'. I hope she passes the exam, bless her.

I'm showing signs of wear and tear after all the gardening, alas. I hate growing older. This time it's 'weeder's wrist' - almost certainly from yanking out huge tufts of grass from the path. I looked up 'wrist pain' on the Interweb, but none of the descriptions matched mine. Maybe I've discovered a new condition, akin to tennis elbow (which can also cause wrist pain apparently). Bah!

I love Facebook. It tells me Paul is in Marrakesh for an academic conference and has even remembered to buy sun-block. I wonder if Facebook was invented with worrying mothers in mind. Now if I don't see any entries I'm going to think his lap-top's been stolen. Worry, fret, panic . . .

May

Hooray for a dry May and time to spend it in the garden! I've planted up most of the vegetables and done some tidying up in the front garden, edging the lawn and pulling out a few weeds. I've made a nice sitootery outside the conservatory, surrounding it with potted plants, and I've had fierce words with Mr T over why he shouldn't use that space to mend the car - broken plants, strange substances, aesthetic reasons, that sort of thing. What's so wrong with the garage area I say? My sitootery is for sitting with a cup of tea and a book!

It's just so much more pleasant than sitting in a stuffy cupboard somewhere in the school, scribbling away. Only two more exams to go - Higher biology is one of them, my nightmare exam to scribe because of all the scientific names. There should be a scribes' crib-sheet for that one.

Fidelio's ready to go into the water. We polished her hull this evening and she's looking good. The dogs came too but were disappointed there was no walk involved. They lay sulking in the car while we beavered away.

Mum's been gone fourteen years on Sunday. It's nice to think of her at bluebell time, but I still miss her.

Bloggers, Bluebells, Bridget and Bad Max

Kimberly, Queen of bloggers, came up with the idea of 'Bloggers and Bluebells'. It was a brave move, considering she's off to America in two days' time, to have a group of Piskie bloggers let loose around the rectory eating her brownies and drinking her tea, but it was great to connect faces with names and fill in some of the background. Bloggers come in all hues, shapes, sizes and ages but one thing we all seem able to do is talk - and didn't we just? The tea, coffee and conversation flowed steadily until it was bluebell time.

For the bluebells bit we went to Kilmun Arboretum. Not far, but far enough for one car-load to lose the way and find themselves at Loch Fyne Oysters. The Zebadee family finally made it to the car-park in time for lunch, just as Bad Max, on arriving at Puck's Glen, decided he'd had enough and turned tail for home. By the time he (with Rosemary and Kimberly in hot pursuit) arrived at the car-park, the Zebadees had hopped it for home too, back to the rectory. Never mind, Kimberly and Rosemary ate their lunch and plotted the sermon. Rosemary, I never knew St Catan existed but you brought him to life for us all. The midges, who were at the wrong gig - Midgebites and Candlelight doesn't happen till later, chaps - ate them. Good dog Bridget would like to point out here that she didn't think much of the Arboretum either - too many bangs. I didn't let on that it was probably our local stalker getting in the supplies of venison.

The rest of us climbed up the glen. Mrs Blethers led - check out her photos - and I rounded up the other photographers, Piglet and Stewart, who were snapping away obliviously, and otherwise might be there yet, and brought up the rear. We all met up again at the car-park, and finally joined the Zebadees at the rectory, whereupon Kimberly changed from blogger to celebrant and we had a fine eucharist in the church to finish.

Until next year then, dear bloggers?

A listening ear

Yesterday was the SEC's rather last-minute attempt prior to Lambeth to do some active 'listening' to the experiences of GLBT folk within a church context. Sixty attended - the maximum which had been allowed for - and my opinion is it was a Good Thing. As one of the six witnesses, I spoke to two groups about what it was like bringing up a gay son. I consulted with Michael and Charlie about what I was going to say and they were comfortable with it. I also made it clear that the account I gave was from my point of view as a mother, and that if Michael had been telling his own story it might be different.

I found it both a humbling and emotional experience. Emotional because much of what I had to say brought back difficult memories, especially as, given my time over again and the benefit of hindsight, I might have have handled things differently. Humbling because it was obvious from some of the responses I got that some people had not heard much in the way of positive affirmation of their sexuality in a church context. It brought home to me how very difficult it is to be Christian and openly LGBT, let alone be ordained and anything other than celibate.

The main point I wanted to get across was something I've said many times - that I'm proud of my boys, who they are and what they've achieved. It makes me sad when I hear of parents of gay children who are ashamed to acknowledge them for what they are. My advice to anyone who suspects that their child might be gay is to be accepting, be affirming and be happy with them when and if they find the person they want to spend their life with.

Compost

I love playing with compost and it's that time of year. I have four compost bins - two of the black plastic 'dalek' variety for kitchen waste and two bigger wooden ones at the far end of the garden for garden waste. Periodically I mix them up and layer them and add a bit of organic accelerator to them. I was doing that on Sunday. What fun.

Jess enjoyed it too - she likes to get her nose into the compost for a rummage around, but I didn't imagine the compost accelerator pellets would be a tasty snack for a small dog. Apparently they are. Now she's making her own compost.

I found another Cursillo blogger and fellow ex-Ninny - it's John Penman, aka Fr Dougal, now in Falkirk. He also seems to be a fellow bird-nerd.

Speaking of birds, I saw three goosanders on the river Echaig - two males chasing the same female who was acting very coy around both. I couldn't help feeling that she didn't really fancy either of them and had her eye on the one that flew off when Jonny leapt joyously into the river a little further upstream (the joy was due to the change in the calendar that dictates that dogs shall now enter all bodies of water at every opportunity. It usually coincides with the first application of the very expensive flea and tick control drops which warn against getting wet for three days after applying. Huh? Have they not heard of Argyll???).

The herons' eggs have hatched - or at least some of them have. I hope the chicks survived all that hail the other day.

All you need is love

That's me back from Cursillo #55 - a little the worse for wear in the body but renewed in spirit and with my Christian love levels well topped up! As usual I feel humbled by the trouble people will go to serving others and the cheerfulness with which they do it. As 'Observing Lay Rector' I didn't actually have much to do other than counting heads and generally getting in the way, which was just as well since the cold I took with me didn't improve and has settled nicely somewhere about mid-lung! But running on paracetamol, cough mixture and adrenaline, I was able to help make a difference in some people's Christian journey and that is just such an amazing privilege. The other amazing privilege was being allowed to administer the Chalice at the closing Eucharist.

Cursillo is such a gift to the church, I wish it was more widely used. The Holy Spirit fairly whistled round settling on everyone there - an eclectic mix of sundry Christians of widely different experience - from a young Malaysian just converted to Christianity to a learned and eminent canon of a cathedral. It's a wonderful way to experience a Christian community in action and makes you determined to bring some of that experience to your own church community. If people once felt the love they would never forget it. Surely that's what Jesus has been saying to us these past two thousand years or so! In the words of St John (or is St Paul?) - all you need is love!

Walk out

Well that was a first! Yesterday I had a student I was scribing for walk out out on me - taking her exam papers with her. I suspect they're in a bin somewhere in the school because they didn't, to my knowledge, arrive at their destination which should have been the school office. The girl was definitely having a bad day and the exam seemed to be entirely beyond her. Previous exams had been a struggle too but at least I'd mostly been able to help her focus long enough to think about the questions and come up with some kind of answer, despite a certain amount of huffing. When I told the teacher what had happened he laughed, as did the office staff who rolled their eyes and said, "Oh her!" I have to say I feel sorry for the lassie and annoyed with myself that I didn't see it coming. I've had kids struggle through papers plenty of times and we've both breathed sighs of relief when we've reached the end, but never a walk out. Oh well, clock another one up to experience and fourteen year old girls I guess, but I still feel I've let her down.

Post Easter Post

I have my usual post-Easter headache. Huh! I can't even say it's due to too much chocolate since I've not even opened my two Easter eggs yet (although chocolate cravings have been satisfied by other means - cake and mini-eggs). Anyway, by the wonders of modern medicine I hope to keep the yukkies at bay.

I watched the last episode of the BBC's version of the Passion last night and found myself wishing for more. I'd like to have followed the disciples a bit further. I thought the post-Easter Jesus was cleverly and interestingly portrayed as someone almost like the actor but not quite until all the disciples believed and then it was Joseph Mawle again. I was unimpressed by the stone they used to seal the grave - it looked like something they bought from B & Q made of concrete. Surely it should have been a bit heftier. There were a lot of good little touches, like the way Mary pressed the shroud to Jesus' face - hints that even if the Turin Shroud is a fake there was a real one with the imprint of his face on it. I liked the fact that they didn't do a John Wayne moment after Jesus died (surely this man was the Son of God) but simply gave us a telling shot of the chief centurian's face later.

All together I thought it did the BBC proud. They tried to give a balanced and realistic view of what might have happened, no sentimentality and although the brutality of the whole crucifixion sequence was shocking, they didn't dwell on it overly. The scenes with Jesus' mother were wonderful and her face will haunt me for a long time. The words of the 'Stabat Mater' ring so true

Holy Week

The daffodils are out, Rob's working on the boat - it must be spring! Not that you'd know it by the air temperature and it's blowing a gale, but at least it's sunny. Not great for spending lots of time in church though and my feet and bum have been permanently freezing this Holy Week. Christine's written very eloquently about the whole thing in her blog. The wind, the cold, the creaking tree - it all added to the atmosphere, weirdly. So did the vandals, who chose Thursday night to mess up the church porch with inane scribblings and a fire - all very symbolic. Kimberly has pictures here.

I just want to add my take on part of yesterday's Good Friday devotions. As six of us, all women, walked the way of the cross, it occurred to me how fitting that was. Women feature in all but one of the positive roles in that heartbreaking journey: Mary, Jesus' mother, and her companions, St. Veronica, the daughters of Jerusalem. Interestingly, I noticed in last night's BBC version of the Passion that St Veronica's role, wiping the blood and sweat from Jesus' face, was taken by a man.

New trick

I had to try it. My new phone was clearly keen that I should blog this photo of a pirate pooch resting in the newly covered chair. Sadly, I have no idea how to change the orientation of the picture so he'll have to be sideways for now :(

Later: Thank you, clever reader, for re-orientation. Frances, you can put your head upright again now.

Homeless

Alas for the Heathbank mice, the mouse-cupboard is being mouse-proofed. I don't know what we're going to call it if the repairs work, but unlike the mice, I shall be very happy if it works. Does this mean my packets of tea, flour and other food items will remain pristine and untasted by tiny raiders? I'm keeping my fingers crossed,

Nicodemus

As I made the pew sheet for tomorrow and searched for a picture of Nicodemus, I was reminded of this short piece I wrote last year (I think it was). As usual, contextual bible study has a lot to answer for! Anyway, read on if you dare.

Moshe’s Rock

There. I have to admit it looks impressive, even though I say it myself. Imagine, Nicodemus, six weeks ago this was a mere rock-face – a very picturesque rock-face – but nothing more, nothing less. The sealing stone takes four men to put in place, so you better make sure I’m dead before you put me in it.

No, I’m not ill, but when you get to my age, you have to be circumspect. And these are difficult times with all the unrest – every week we’re called at the Sanhedrin - always some Galilean or other. Deluded mostly. You know my views: there’s only Jesus the Nazarene who has any real clout - he raised Lazarus from the dead, didn’t he? - and he’s too clever for us – baruch Hashem. When the Kingdom of Heaven comes, he’ll be right there, mark my words.

Yes, I know it’s dangerous talk, but there’s no-one near. Just us and a great hole in the rock which cost me more shekels than would feed a family for a year. But what else should I do with my money – it’s not going to bring Moshe – alav ha shalom - back from the dead. Just think – he’d be about the same age as the Nazarene if he’d lived. I wonder what he’d have made of him. Probably given up all this to be one of his followers, impulsive little fool. He was braver than I am – otherwise he’d never have survived in the leper colony so long.

I wish he could lie in there with me instead of in that terrible place outside the city. It’s a sore thing to bury a son, but worse when you can’t even give him the proper rituals.

He used to play on these rocks with his friends – and some of the servants’ brats. They thought we didn’t know. Couldn’t be seen from the house for the olive grove. Not that I minded. I wanted him to be happy, that’s all, and if it meant playing Romans and Jews in and out the boulders, it was fine with me.

That’s why I had the tomb hewn out of this rock. He was happy here. He used to come here when he was older too, to sit and think, he said. If I can’t lie with him, I may as well be where his happy memories are. It’s a good place.

Come and look inside. It’s quite easy – I’ve had a path made, see. I want you to be able to carry me without tripping over stray rocks. There. I had them put the shelf for the body at a convenient height. That way you and the others won’t get back-ache when you’re attending to me. There’s seventy-five pounds of myrrh and aloes in the store under the house, so that should be enough to make sure all’s as it should be.

Why am I telling you this now? Who else am I to tell but my old friend and colleague? Who else will bury me? Moshe’s gone, Evie’s never recovered, she wouldn’t know if I’m alive or dead.
I’m tired, Nicodemus. Tired of all the hypocrisy. Giving alms with one hand, taking bribes with the other; fleecing the poor folk who’ve trekked miles to the temple every time they change their money to buy a couple of scrawny pigeons. It’s not right. We blame the Romans for all the ills of this world but we’re as much to blame. We don’t help ourselves. I’ve talked to Pilate – he’s not a bad chap, a bit wishy-washy for a governor, but fair enough. He reckons we’ll never get out from under Roman rule because we’re too busy fighting among ourselves. He has a point.

And Jesus the Nazarene, he hobnobs with tax-collectors and Samaritans – even lepers! And gets away with it. When the Kingdom of Heaven comes I shouldn’t be surprised if we find ourselves rubbing shoulders with them too. If he’s right – and my money says he is – the time is coming when people like you and me are going to be no more or less important than old lame Jacob at the gate. That doesn’t go down well with the others, but I welcome it. It means Moshe and I can be together again in death at least.

Don’t look so shocked, Nicodemus – you must know what I’m saying. Everyone’s talking about the new way. It’s about time we had another prophet to sort out this mess and I believe the Nazarene is it. I’ve heard he’s on his way to Jerusalem for Passover. I’d like to invite him to eat the meal with me, but to tell the truth I get a bit maudlin remembering Moshe asking the four questions and hunting all over for the Afikomen when I’ve hidden it under his little discarded coat, and I don’t want to make a fool of myself. Anyhow, I expect he’ll have made arrangements.

Well, my old friend, much as I’d like to stay in this cool cave all day, you and I have our obligations, don’t we? I’m glad you approve of my choice of resting place. It’s nothing but a hole carved out of rock, but it has an atmosphere and I can feel my boy very close by in the peace of it. Shall we say Mincha in here before we leave? I’m sure it’s allowed. Jesus would tell us to pray in secret, not to make an exhibition of ourselves. Let’s do it here. In Moshe’s rock.

Completions

I've written my sermon on sin and temptation - hee! Watch out folks!

February seems to be the month for completions. First Michael completed his nursing studies. Those who know Michael's story will realise what a momentous achievement this is and how he has risen above setback after setback to get to this stage. I'm so proud of him.

Then Paul arrived yesterday having finally finished, bound and handed in his thesis. I had a look at his copy of it, which is about 4cm thick with really small writing. Fortunately for me it also contains lots of pretty pictures so I was able to appreciate at least something. Well done Paul - I'm so proud of you too.

And finally, Walter, a writer who stayed with us a couple of years ago and was inspired to write a new book, 'A Song in Stone', by his visit to Scotland, has told me the book is ready. Apparently, I put in an appearance as the hero's granny who also pops up as la vierge noire as part of the story. I should make the most of it since my chances of being anyone else's granny are somewhat slim at present! Anyhow, I'm flattered and amused to have been an inspiration and have thoroughly enjoyed seeing the process of actually writing a novel from inception to completion (not for the faint-hearted!). I'm also quite astounded at the way Walter manages to keep all the threads and facts of the story together in his head and then weave them into a cohesive whole. Amazing.

Pancakes!

The pancake party at the rectory was in full swing when I arrived last night. Our rector can certainly toss a mean pancake. I don't know how she does it for so long - American style in one pan, traditional in the other and two more pans on the go as well at peak pancake demand, pretty much non stop all evening, or at least until I had to leave to go to the choir practice at eight.

Michael and Charlie came for a while and someone recognised Michael as my son because he looks so like me! I was amused because I never think of him as remotely like me in looks. There was an irrepressible woman sitting near us who obviously thought both M and C were my sons, despite them having totally different accents. She kept going on about how well I'd brought them up! I didn't know how to tell her otherwise and couldn't get a word (or a pancake) in edgeways anyway.

Michael is now qualified as a nurse! Woopee! And he's unemployed woopee! Howcome there aren't any jobs around for nurses any more? I thought all these hospitals were short staffed. He's looking further afield which means they might have to move, alas. :(

As I write, Paul is (I hope and trust) driving up from Nottingham with his thesis to hand in today - the deadline. He hopes to stay for a few days to recover from a couple of months of intensive thesising and not much sleeping.

It's my turn to preach on Sunday - Lent 1. I have to preach on Sin. Figures *g*

glitter-graphics.com

Off to another Cursillo weekend in April - this time as Observing Lay Rector. That means that this time next year I'll be in charge! Eek! Am I ready for this?

Woof no more

One of Jonny-dog's less appealing traits is getting over-excited in the car. The noise he makes is not so much barking as screaming the moment his nose tells him the destination is in smell. Some destinations are more easily recognised than others and the humans in the car have to endure prolonged assault upon the eardrums. He then goes into extreme barking mode the second he's let out the car (of course he knows to go angelically quiet until you let him out) and keeps this up for approximately a minute, until he's a) watered the nearest tree and b) found a stick to carry. Once that's complete, he'll usually dive into the bushes for a crap and then walk placidly just ahead for the rest of the walk.

While I know this is classic dominant behaviour, I find it strange that he really only exhibits it at this time. Otherwise, he's an exemplary dog, but the moment he knows a walk or an outing in the car is in the offing he changes into the Hound of Hell. Rob and I have tried all sorts of ways to control it, but nothing seems to work. He's bitten me on a couple of occasions through being sky-high on adrenaline just before I let him into the car (both times when I was taking something from him) and Jess comes in for a lot of aggression too. At all other times he's the gentlest of dogs and much better mannered than spoiled little Jess!

So I finally capitulated and bought an anti-bark collar. If you follow the link you see that it was quite an expense, so that's how desperate I was (not quite desperate enough to call in the Dog-Whisperer though).

And it works!

No more woofing! We drove all the way to Ardentinny with quiet and it was almost eerie. The first time we tried it - yesterday evening - he nearly jumped out of his skin but got the message so quickly that I removed the collar as soon as the 'barking time' was over. The same today, only he didn't even attempt to bark. Quite amazing and definitely worth the sixty quid. Now if only they made an anti- jumping-up collar for Jess . . .

Nature vs Nurture

Mrs Blethers and I were having a discussion about upbringing as we tramped round the Bishop's Glen, trying to keep ahead of the rain, and yet again it brought home to me how different her home-life was from mine. She had two extremely academic parents and an ethic of study in the house where homework was given precedence over chores (she didn't have chores to do!) and her parents were able and willing to help with the likes of Latin and chemistry.

My parents, on the other hand, were not academic - although my father could well have been had he not been forced through poverty to leave school at fourteen and enter the civil service on the bottom rung. Because, by the time I reached secondary school I had a baby brother as well as a younger brother, there was no quiet, academic atmosphere in our house and I had my share of chores - laying the table and helping with dishes, and later, when said baby was of an age to attend nursery school and my mother returned to work, I was also responsible for peeling potatoes and generally helping with the cooking. Homework was done after teatime, either in my bedroom or in the dining room, away from the family. There was no supervision and I was left to my own devices. I don't remember asking for, or receiving help very often and on the odd occasion I asked my father, who was a whizz with numbers, for help with maths, he would give me the answer but no indication of the means - and that wouldn't fool my maths teacher for a moment. My marks were fairly dismal and I only made an effort in things that interested me. My A-level results were barely sufficient to get me into teaching college, despite having been a promising pupil at primary school and being a keen reader and prolific writer of 'books'. I sometimes wonder why I wasn't more motivated at school, but to be honest, I think I was simply more interested in when I could get out to play.

But here's the thing: I don't regret being an academic failure. I learned enough to get me through college and allow me to follow a career, I've continued with my education informally and used the skills I gained from my parents and grandparents to lead a useful life, I think. I wouldn't have thought for a minute back then that in my sixtieth year I'd be studying theology and enjoying it, or learning to sing properly. And despite being so hopeless at maths all those years ago, I'm a whizz at sudoku. My parents rarely pushed me to do anything I didn't want to do - except tidy my room - but they did encourage me to take an interest in other people and their welfare, to talk about anything and everything, to make myself useful and be content with what I have. I'm not sure if those are fashionable qualities any more but they've helped me keep my head above water.

Most of my friends are far greater academic achievers than I ever was but I feel as if I hold my own with them. Only my younger brother attained anything like academic success in our family and he assures us that it wasn't his fault. My youngest brother was even more hopeless than I was academically but it hasn't stopped him being pretty darn successful.

I wonder how Mrs B and I would have fared if we'd been born into each other's families.

Hmm

I received this cartoon in one of those round robin pass-it-on emails. There were several more which all seemed a bit smug, but this one annoyed me particularly. Is it just me and my bee in the bonnet, or would anyone else rather the couple at the door of the church were same-sex?

Swimming

Back to the swimming today after a couple of weeks off and - miracle - my cozzie still fits despite too many mince pies. Now that the schools are in, the mornings are relatively quiet and it's safe to swim up and down without fear of being jumped on or having to dodge too many flailing thighs and thrashing arms.

We regulars swim decorously, keeping to our lanes. We take care not to engulf one another in bow-waves and pretend not to compete, although we always notice if some expert comes in and swishes two lengths in the time it takes us to turn round. The kids in the swimming club, for instance. There is something demoralising about being lapped in the first minute by a ten-year-old or realising that the whey-faced, stick-thin teenagers who hog the showers are the same ones who streak past you up the pool, just when you thought your breast-stroke was really getting rather better or your back-stroke more graceful. I try to time my arrival just when the swimming club are finishing. That way I only have to compete with the other retirees.

Then up to un-decorate the church. It looks so plain without all the ebullient greenery everywhere, the crib shedding hay and the smug angels with the rolling eyes, holding up their pretty little candles. The Wise Men made it from the pulpit to the crib by way of the font in time for this Sunday, but now they and their camels are tucked away in their big wooden kist, wrapped in bubble-wrap, rubbing shoulders with St Peter, the Risen Christ and the Swooping Ladies who we'll be dusting down before they know it this year, Easter being so early.

Resolutions

My brother tells me I don't update often enough, so my New Year Resolution is to be more communicative.

Another resolution is to be a more efficient Vestry secretary and therefore be more useful to my rector.

My first piece of efficiency will be to post the minutes of the AGM on the church notice board a week before the EGM, which we're having to hold because Kimberly succumbed to one of the many bugs floating round Dunoon (one of the perils of going into the schools is the number of ways you can catch the latest scourge).

My second piece of efficiency will be to consult my diary more often (ie sometimes).

I think two resolutions are ample. I'd much rather make resolutions such as to read more books, do more sudoku, play with the dogs more often and to write more fanfiction, but I doubt if any of those will make me into a better person and I'll be doing them anyway so they're a cop-out. However, I've probably got a better chance of keeping them beyond January . . .

Erk!!

Text from Paul who's in Norway for New Year:

"Happy new year. Just sledged down a ski slope naked but for a pair of gloves. Having a load of fun . . ."

Oh to be young and crazy again.

Christmas chez Di

That's all my chickens flown again. It was lovely having everybody here and the time went all too fast. Charlie was the first to go back to work first thing Boxing Day, then Michael onto night shift last night. Paul left for Norway this morning and Rob left for work at the same time. But it was a good Christmas in every way and now I have to make Christmas soup and somehow sort out all the leftovers so we don't end up throwing things away.

The dogs remembered about Christmas too and Jonny doggedly (sorry!) unwrapped his toy and his pig's ear while Jess went completely crazy and didn't know what to do first and ended up losing her pig's ear to Hamish who nipped in when she was distracted. They gorged themselves on leftovers - alas some sprouts were included - and the house smells appallingly of doggy indigestion.

Paul brought a Wii - which is a sort of computer game where you mimic the movements of the various sports. It was such fun and we were all so involved in a game of 'tennis' on Christmas Eve that we almost forgot to go to Midnight Mass and as it was I was so knackered after leaping around the room batting imaginary balls that I was unable to sing much more than a cheep for the first two carols. However, the incense cleared the tubes and by Hark the Herald at the end as we stood round the crib (the rector had to scurry back to the altar for Baby Jesus) and lit the little candle, I was able to screech the descant not too horribly.

All in all it was most satisfactory :)

Preparations

The Christmas preparations are going suspiciously well. I even checked the gas-tank to make sure we have enough LPG to see us through the holiday - we usually run out about January 1st - and it's almost full. At this time, I always fret until all my chickens are in the nest and under my wing, which is scheduled to be on Christmas Eve when Paul arrives from Nottingham, although his idea of early afternoon tends to be around midnight. Charlie will be working Christmas day - people still need cared for - but he finishes at 3pm, so he'll be a late chicken.

Speaking of chickens, we'll be eating one on Christmas day. Admittedly it's the size of a small ostrich, but turkey is a terrible price this year thanks to the bird-flu, and as some of the brood don't eat it anyway, I decided to go with a lovely free-range chicken and a nice joint of Aberdeen Angus. Now, of course, I don't know whether to do Yorkshire puddings or bread sauce.

Of course it's still Advent and yesterday I had to doctor the Advent wreath up at the church because it's in danger of going up in flames. The purple berries had to be replaced with fresh ones (isn't it useful that such berries grow in the rectory garden? Our rector is a stickler for the proper colours of advent, so not a red berry in sight until Christmas day) and candle number one had to be replaced with candle two, which was replaced with candle four from last year. This will only make sense to those of you who are advent-wreath-savvy, by the way, sorry. I was reminded of our niece, Eilidh's, christening when the advent wreath under the pulpit suddenly caught fire during Rob's father's sermon and for a moment it seemed he was going to disappear in a column of fire like Elijah. Brave Rob beat out the flames and he lived to preach again.

Happy Christmas to all my friends.

The Smoke

Well, that's how the other half live! A weekend in the world of the well-heeled has convinced me that I could get used to it. If you discount the eight hours spent in a white van - admittedly full of art and good wine - my sojourn in London was about as far away from real life as I've been for a while. Rob's friend Bill has a new pad overlooking Chelsea's football pitch (which isn't in Chelsea, but in Fulham and is called Stamford Bridge). He reckons he got it cheap because of the location, but for someone who enjoys footie, having a grandstand view of the pitch from your living room is a bonus and the place formerly belonged to the club director so it's not exactly a rat-hole. Apparently if it was a few hundred yards up the road - in Chelsea - it'd be worth six million. As it is, you insert your special key into the ninth floor button of the lift and it takes you right into the flat. Cool huh?

I spent Saturday on a shop-crawl round Harvey Nick's and Harrods and all manner of designer shops in Knightsbridge, which were all within walking distance. All good fun, although I didn't buy much except for a gold-plated bagel (costing £9!!) for lunch. The hotel was the sort of place that turns down your bed for you in the evening and leaves a half bottle of champagne as a welcome (I brought it home) and a chocolate on the pillow. Lucky for me I'd recently bought a good coat so I didn't feel too much of a scruff. We dined in gastro-pubs and bistros along with half the population - does nobody eat in down there?

Bill showed me how to solve the super-fiendish sudoku too. He has a formidable talent for such things, which is probably why he's such a good bridge player, which is why he lives in a posh pad and collects art and puts up his guests in a luxury to which they are not accustomed (but could become so!). Oh well, it was nice to come home to the doggies and the messy house. I think this is more my style after all.

The Tennents seem to be gadding around all over the place. Paul is just home from Chicago where he had such a great time he can hardly stop talking about it, and Alton Towers where he apparently had an even better time, and even made several local newspapers and TV programmes (alas none which were shown in Scotland).

I'm just about to abandon Rob and the dogs and head for Paris where I'm attending the European Man From UNCLE get-together. We plan to do a lot of sight-seeing, a lot of eating (and moderate drinking as befits a bunch of middle-aged fangirls) and a great deal of MFU watching (if my attempts at ripping off some old videos onto dvd works). The dogs are not pleased and are not letting me out of their sight. Perhaps I'd better go and placate them with extra special walkies now.

QE2

I took this photo from my garden as the QE2 sailed past on her round Britain farewell cruise. I remember her launch not long after we moved to Glasgow - the White Cart river backed up as far as Pollok, near where I lived. She was the last of the great Cunard Queens, the most stately of all cruise ships and one on which it seemed only the super-rich could aspire to sail. But yesterday, many of the people who built her were aboard with their families as guests. I wonder how many of them ever dreamed it would happen, or indeed dreamed that they would live to see the great ship retire. I somehow thought these wonderful vessels went on indefinitely.

As I sat in the conservatory sewing curtains for my mother-in-law yesterday, I could see her single red funnel towering above the Greenock sky-line. Then, with a terrifying roar, the Red Arrows (or similar planes from Lossiemouth) flew over us and started an incredible display of aerobatics above Greenock. There was red, white and blue smoke and a fantastic circle which left a trail in the shape of a Q in the sky. We watched her on and off all day until - with the weather clearing serendipitously - at 6pm she began manoeuvring out. There were hundreds other boats round about, entirely dwarfed by her; the Cally Mac ferry looked like a little toy boat by comparison.

Kimberly gives a wonderfully evocative description of watching from Dunoon Pier. It made the BBC evening news, but apparently merited only ten seconds and a poor shot of her in Greenock Terminal. Shame on you Beeb.

Candlelight and the midges are still with us

Due to a wedding and a funeral and our rector's inability to split herself in half, we had an unexpected eucharist last night (to reserve the Sacrament for Sunday when she'll be in Rothesay). What a treat it was! Clouds of incense, lots and lots of candles all over the sanctuary - so many I feared for the rector going up in smoke herself when her vestments swished a little too close for comfort - and all for me and two others. It was bliss. I'm doing the sermon on Sunday and I felt that God had really given it his best shot now and it's up to me to do him justice.

The midges were waiting for us outside, but even they couldn't break the mood.

The Colour Purple

It's the time of year when my fingers seem to be permanently stained purple - bramble season is upon us once again. Thirty two years ago next week I was brambling while nine months pregnant, and Number One Son was born the following day, so I always know when to start looking in the hedgerows. This year, they're a wee bit early and the hedges are already groaning with lovely big brambles. The dogs are resigned to their walks being punctuated by their person periodically diving into the bushes and emerging with scratches, purple fingers and a full poo-bag that looks as if I've been cleaning up after an elephant! Yes, the poo-bag that I always carry in my pocket has another use in September.

I've been helping my neighbour plan her husband's funeral and it's turning out to be a surprisingly joyous task, despite the sadness. Her husband died after eighteen years of increasing disability following a fall from the roof of their house. Before that he was a hugely energetic, adventurous man, handsome and fit and with a zest for life. That zest remained until his care requirements became too much for his wife to manage at home. Although he was then unable to speak, he made it clear that his wife was everything to him and without her, he didn't want to go on. It took three years before he got his wish and that was down to his own determination not to go on living.

The funeral is truly a celebration of a life characterised by courage, good humour and fortitude. But you cannot attribute these qualities to one without the other, because both partners have lived this life together. Two lives well lived and inexorably intertwined.

Hitting the Roof

You'd think buying sixty roof tiles and getting them home would be a scoosh for someone with a tow-bar and a trailer. After all, that's exactly the sort of thing one does all the time when married to a Rob. I've no idea how often I've been to the builders' yard to pick up stuff for his latest project - actually the on-going one which is this house - only to find that it's an enormous thing that has to be tied onto the roof or stuck out the window, or somehow impede one's ability to change gear.

However, yesterday's task almost defeated me. First problem is the trailer, which I discover to be full of bags of old cement and a bag of lime which has swelled in the rain and burst. I assume Rob had intended taking them to the tip so I resolve to do just that - when I can get the darned trailer attached to the car! The cement's so heavy that I can't budge it and the bags are too heavy for me to lift out.

Now this is the first weekend for a while that the weather promises to be dry. The roof is, if not entirely open to the elements, not exactly closed, lacking sixty tiles. I need to get those tiles. I phone Number One Son whom I know to be at home and take the dogs out while waiting for him to arrive. He arrives, wearing a Superman tee-shirt. My hero. Together, with our combined weight of less than twenty stones, we somehow manage to move and attach the trailer. Hooray! Superman and I drive to the tip.

The tip is closed. Or at least, it's not functioning as a tip for the next few days. All the skips are away. It's a car-park for the Games - Dunoon is en fete for the weekend of the Cowal Games. My howl of frustration is heard by a man who kindly lets me drive in and round because I can't reverse with darn trailer attached! Okay, I admit it - I'm a woman driver and we don't do fancy reversing tricks with trailers. They go the wrong way, they twist themselves into jack-knife mode and refuse to budge. I usually have to unhitch the thing and re-attach it after I've turned, but it's too heavy this time. Superman keeps quiet. He can't reverse it either.

I decide to go to the builders' yard anyway, nursing a vain hope that there might be a skip there. The surly chap at the desk is not entirely unaffected by my tale of woe and waves in the direction of a skip which appears to be at capacity. I want to kiss him but restrain myself and try not to think about the fact that my car and trailer are stranded in the yard facing the wrong way, surrounded by trucks and and fork-lifts and men with hairy arms and buiders' bums. Superman is looking a little embarrassed beside his mother's abandoned car but cheers up with the good news and staggers to the skip with the bags of cement, which he balances on top of the full pile with grim determination, and I look for a shovel to get rid of the lime, most of which I tranfer to my clothes and person. Surly Chap goes off with my sample tile to find a match.

Sixty roof-tiles is a trailer-full and they are heavy. I can vouch for that. I manage to carry two at a time and Superman can manage five at a stagger. At some point I seize an opportunity to drive the car in a circle to face out the way as a couple of the trucks leave. Maybe no-one will notice that I'm unable to reverse. The trucks are quickly replaced by several more and a huge skip-lorry arrives to take away the skip, but he he can't get near it because of me and I'm not budging until I have sixty tiles aboard. Three more trucks arrive but they can't get in either. The man with the fork-lift has a load of floorboards on the front and wants through the gap but it isn't wide enough. Superman continues to weave his way in and out of the obstacle course with five at a time while I apologise to the hairy-armed ones. Finally I get my bill from Surly Chap and we depart - or at least we depart after the skip lorry and pick-up trucks have reversed back out of the gate to let us through. I smile and wave cheerily.

"I see you got the tiles," remarks my beloved when he gets home from work.

"Oh yes," I reply, "no bother."

Corks!

I'm glad I'm not a bishop! Aside from all the problems that would evoke since I'm of the female persuasion, if last night's meeting at the rectory to discuss the Draft Anglican Covenant was anything to go by, trying to come up with a document with words vague enough to cover the whole of the hopelessly divided Anglican Communion right now is an impossible task. It took us about three hours to come up with one sentence explaining why we didn't accept the present draft. We sat around the room like a class of glumps, unable to articulate what we felt was just . . . wrong.

The commodious umbrella of the Anglican church has always accommodated people of incredibly wide-ranging views. Why has the issue of human sexuality caused it to rip itself apart in this way? It seems such a trivial thing. If it was to do with world poverty or the spead of AIDS or the causes of global warming - issues that divide the real world - it might be worth taking a stand, but whether we're going to allow gay clergy to have their loving relationships openly? Come on!

Where's the Christian love for everyone that Jesus taught? You'd think that the church would be up there among the front runners. But wait - didn't we Christians support anti-semitism and apartheid and didn't we fight among ourselves over the Catholic / Protestant divide and female clergy? We're pretty much over those prejudices now and we'll get over this one. But my question is: Why are we behind secular society? We should be leading the way.

Christian living

I'm just home from a Cursillo weekend. Cursillo is a short course on Christian living and I must say this 'weekend' (it's actually three days) was just that. My role was that of table leader, to facilitate discussion among the participants, so I was lucky enough to share all the experiences they had and watch them grow in their faith and determination to make a difference for God. Talk about recharging batteries - is it possible for batteries to overflow? Because that's what I feel I'm doing right now. Cursillo is a wonderful resource within the church to give people the chance to share their experiences on their Christian journey, deepen their understanding of their faith and be encouraged to help build a more active, dynamic Christian community within their own church. As someone on the weekend remarked, if only all churches could be like this!

Oh the stress of it!

Mrs Blethers and I were commiserating about the stress of management yesterday. One of the things that impressed me last weekend in the run-up to the wedding was the way my friends Doo and Mike kept all the balls in the air - sending folk out on missions to pick something or someone up, put up tables, chase up things that hadn't appeared (Where's the disco? It's been stolen in a raid? Get another one!), polish the board for the menus, make signs for the carpark etc etc - and all this while keeping up a constant supply of cups of tea, and bacon rolls. Everyone went about their task willingly, cheerfully and competently and nobody argued or complained or shirked. But most importantly, nobody was overburdened or overwhelmed with things to do - there was plenty of delegation of jobs. A fine example of good management.

Of course I know that the reference to frantically paddling swans (which look so serene on the water) in the wedding sermon would not be lost on the family. I'm quite sure there was plenty of stress going on, but I'm equally sure that there would have been so much more if Doo and/or Mike had taken everything upon themselves and not trusted others to do a good job. Perhaps some things would not be exactly as they might have done it themselves, but maybe they were better. It all struck me as a really good use of people's talents. And there were plenty of them around.

Weddings

I've been to two weddings these last two Saturdays. July is a good month to get married as Rob and I can attest (35 years last Sunday!) and even if this is the wettest summer on record, the sun managed to shine on both the young couples. Both brides looked stunningly beautiful, both grooms were perfectly adorable, and both couples had love shining out of their eyes throughout, but what struck me was the contrast between the two weddings as a whole.

The first took place at my own church, Holy Trinity, small and a little down at heel but decorated to within an inch of its life with glorious garden flowers - predominantly hydrangeas (look here to see). The majority of the guests were not church people and the couple were affirming by their marriage a long-standing relationship. The wedding service - a new and disputed SEC rite - was beautifully worded to take this into account and the hymns were modern, with marriage-specific words set to folk tunes - easy to sing but still beautiful.

By contrast, my goddaughter's wedding, in a picturesque country parish church, was heaving with clergy and church people. Indeed her mother (my best friend from schooldays) married them. The ceremony was formal, the hymns traditional and the whole thing took near enough two hours. Once again the church was gloriously decorated (I believe Sainsbury's was entirely denuded of flowers for the purpose) and there were even real rose-petals scattered down the aisles. It was all quite perfect and I enjoyed myself immensely, despite being even later than the bride (we went to the wrong church) and discovering on leaving that we'd left the sun-roof of the car open (it was pouring). All this and getting to spend time with my lovely old friends. Sheer bliss.

Oh dear

I made another. This time it's Paul. I think it's pretty good - what doi you think, PT?

And another one

Here's the one I made for Rob. The nearest thing to his favourite blue fleece is a blue aran, but it's near enough. Why no sailing boats? Well, I suppose his beloved Mac will have to do - not as sexy as Fidelio though.

Everybody's got a Wee Me so I had to make one too. She's a pretty good likeness, although there was no facility to add wrinkles - maybe at that size they don't show!

Today was Croc test-run day. My neighbour, Phyl, and I both bought colourful clogs the other day so today we took the dogs and road-tested our new acquisitions at the beach at Ardentinny. Mine are red and hers are blue but both colours performed perfectly. After stumping along the stony path (nice and squishy so you don't feel the stones), we swished through the long grass of the meadow (wet but who cares), tromped over the sand (not too much sandy intrusion) and finally paddled in the 'sea' (lovely - no sharp shells cutting into the tootsies). Then we swapped one each and came back one red, one blue. Luckily we only met one couple - English tourists, so I expect they thought odd-shoe wearing was a weird local custom. As for the dogs - even Jess consented to get her toes wet since I was paddling and JD lollopped joyously in and out of the water, making sure it wasn't just our fancy new clogs that got wet!

Dogs will do

The dogs are in trouble. They're banned from the woods at the back of the house and my grand-dog, Hamish, is probably banned from the car forever! His sin was to scoff three chicken breasts while Michael and Charlie were in Scummerfields buying the rest of dinner. To do that he had to leap from the boot of the car to the front seat (no mean feat for His Corpulence) and negotiate plastic bags and sealed polythene. No ill effects; he expected breakfast as usual the following morning (he didn't get it).

Jonny and Jess' sin was altogether more gross and perhaps if you're squeamish you should stop reading now. They both disappeared up the back on Thursday night and returned stinking appallingly. I gave Jess - who returned first - an apple to eat to freshen her breath so that I could at least be in the same room as her but Jonny, when he finally appeared, refused it. No wonder - he was obviously at bursting point, as was revealed a few minutes later (fortunately on the front lawn rather than the sitting room carpet).

Rob manfully decided to go and see what they'd been eating while I kept an eye on Jess in case she decided to share her unwise meal too; she didn't - her stomach is cast iron. It turned out to be the carcass of a baby deer - wah! Poor wee thing. I think it explains the disappearance of a terrier a couple of days earlier - its owners spent ages as the top of the garden shouting for it - and the fact that my dogs were wired all week, barking and barking at seemingly nothing.

All I can say is yuck! Remind me why I love dogs . . .

New baby

I came home from my visit to the Peak district to see Number Two Son (who actually lives in Nottingham but the idea of a weekend there was less appealing) with a new laptop. Poor dear faithful Bluebell has finally retired, being too slow and too small to deal with the internet in these days of U-Tube etc. New Laptop is only new to me and although it's not as pretty as Bluebell, it's speedy. I think I might name it Speedy - I don't seem to have assigned it a gender, only a character!

The dogs are going to the furdresser this morning. Stand by for pictures of smart pooches. Poor Jonny is scratching constantly this weather and I'm hoping a short back and sides will alleviate the itches. While they're away I intend to blitz the garden which is burgeoning even more than usual with this warm dampness. Argyll has much in common with rainforest IMO. The only things which don't seem to be burgeoning are my baby courgette plants, lovingly nurtured for weeks indoors, only to provide a tasty snack for the slugs. Since I fed the local woodpigeons on carrot seedlings, I feel I'm doing my bit for wildlife round here. Hmph!

And they'll know we are Christians . . .

I suspect most church members would be able to finish that hymn line and might even, like me, cringe a little. On Saturday at our Cursillo Provincial meeting in Falkirk, I was reduced to a state of mild hysteria and immoderate giggles by the combination of that hymn, the pianist's (wonderfully executed) accompaniment and an unfortunate typo which exhorted us to 'wok' with each other. I'm sorry - it's a weakness of mine as those who know me will attest - my giggle threshhold is low.

However, I have to admit - reluctantly - that those words make sense when applied to Cursillo. What is it about Cursillo that changes lives? I know lots of folk who say, unequivocably, that Cursillo has changed their life. It's changed mine, dammit, when I was quite happy with it the way it was, thank you. But that's what happens and it happens to a LOT of people who go on a Cursillo 'weekend'.

So, apart from the regrettable giggling episode, what was it about Saturday's gathering that elated me, filled me with joy and then left me with a warm glow and a sense that the Holy Spirit had been fairly whistling around that afternoon? The venue was well appointed, with kitchen and adequate loos but the church itself was one of those depressing balconied affairs with dreadful acoustics and pews with gates (I never manged to get my gate open and had to leap over the back to get in and out) and the poor organist had to clamber into a pit from which, disappointingly, he failed to rise like those wonderfully tumescing theatre organs. We were a motley collection of oddbods, mostly over fifty, mostly a bit 'hand-knitted', some downright eccentric-looking. Frankly, it was the kind of gathering I'd have run a mile from under normal circumstances. But there I was and it was heaven. Heaven because we all had one thing in common - we'd all been on a Cursillo weekend and learned that it was all right to love each other.

We Brits are a pretty repressed lot on the whole. We don't go around showing our emotions and certainly my generation don't go in for excessive hugging and kissing. I remember a dear old lady at my last church when the pax was introduced declaring, "If anyone tries to kiss me I'll bite!" and she spoke for many. But during a Cursillo weekend, people learn to take off that mask of reserve and allow their inner child to come out. We discover, maybe for the first time, that God really loves us and accepts us just as we are and suddenly we begin to love and accept each other. After all, Jesus told us over and over again to do it, but so many of us didn't really listen. Me - I'd been happy to love the lovable, but there were far too many folk whom I considered decidedly not my type and therefore unlovable. Cursillo allowed me to see everyone as potentially lovable, as a friend, like Jesus. It helped me to look for the good in people and not to judge them.

So there we were on Saturday, the Cursillistas. Yes, we were a bunch of assorted oddbods, but we knew God loved all of us and we loved each other. And that, I think, is the essence of Christianity. Or it should be. Unfortunately much of that essence has been lost or stifled by organisations which have introduced rules, created factions, hierarchies and all the baggage the church is now staggering under. Cursillo gives us a taste of what the world could be like.

Oh and . . . 'they'll know we are Christains by our love' btw.

Ouch, my brain hurts!

Yesterday we had a lay learning session with Kimberly, who showed admirable patience, as befits her calling, with the motley middle-aged retirees who make up the Lay Worship Group.

We were wrestling with Marcus J Borg's 'The God we Never Knew', part 2, and discussing his theology, christology and a whole lot of other ologies - most of which I'd never heard of. And we were showing our ignorance. Not only that, but our difficulties in grasping such concepts as 'a personal God'. Crikey, it's hard to get the brain cells back in gear - but such fun. I got a huge buzz out of the discussion, even though had I been prone to low self-esteem I might have been plunged into despair by the sluggishness of my intellect.

But dear Kimberly said she enjoyed it too - bless her elegant stockings - and now I can't wait for the next bout.

In other news, the rain is good for the garden! Really it is.

giggle

Okay - go to Google maps, choose 'get directions' and try going form New York to Glasgow.

Don't abandon at line 23 (even if you can't stop laughing)

::gasp::

Baaa

Suddenly the fields are full of baby lambs! Did I mention I love this time of year?

More nature and a shaggy dog story

Saw the first bluebells out this morning on the back road of Blairmore in a very sunny spot. The ones on our hill are still at least a week away from even budding. The sun's at last come back - we've been hearing about all these high temperatures and wall-to-wall sunshine just about everywhere but here - so I must get back to clearing up the winter debris.

My poor little grand-dog, Hamish has had his life ruined by the arrival of a cat. Not just any cat, but a former resident of his house - Lily. She was a very pretty kitten, smoky grey and dainty. It seems all Hamish's midgy-raking fun has been stymied by the installation of two gates on the kitchen doors, and he can't even have the consolation of polishing off Lily's food when she's not looking.

'Tis a dog's life.

Tweet tweet

The chiffchaffs have arrived back in my garden - a real sign that spring has well and truly sprung and that summer's not too far away. I'm always so impressed that these wee birds fly all the way from Africa! The cuckoo flowers are also out, but no cuckoo yet. I think they wait for the willow-warblers to arrive (so they can commandeer their nests) and I haven't heard one yet - they're usually a week or so after the chiffchaffs.

There's so much avian activity going on that the dogs are on constant tenterhooks, being teased by bold jackdaws pulling bits of twig off the trees and squawked at by angry robins and blackbirds when they disturb their foragings. And the bluetits seem to be obsessed with getting into the house. Last year it was a crazy chaffinch hurling itself at the bathroom window and this year we've had one bluetit in the conservatory, several trying to get in and another one at the back bedroom. I'm assuming they see their reflections and think they're potential mates.

I love this time of year :)

J and J are giving me a hard time today due to a chicken carcass in the fridge and a bag of beef jerky - a present from my weekend visitor - in the cupboard. They're usually not too bad as far as mooching goes, but I suppose the combination of smells is enough to try the patience of any self-respecting spaniel.

Thanks to the insistence of my rector, as a condition of being allowed to be part of the Lay Worship Group, I'm very taken up with reading theology at the moment - nothing too dry and academic, but some very accessible (for the novice) books by Marcus J Borg and John Dominic Crossan. I wish I'd read this stuff years ago! It would have saved me a great deal of worry that I was not really a 'proper' Christian because I couldn't take on board so much of the stuff I thought I was supposed to believe. If only I'd known that the image of God I thought I'd come to myself is actually in line with modern theological thought. Is that cool or what? What's more, I'm finding out lots about the historical Jesus, which has always fascinated me, but I've just not been aimed at the right sources before.

Our adventurous friend, Jetta has begun a blog. She's preparing for yet another daring trip, this time to Nepal and she hopes to blog from there. Um - do they have broadband in the Himalayas? Anyway, anything she writes is sure to be worth reading, I promise, and the pictures of her adorable granddaughter, Amy, are gorgeous.

Sounds like a good offer

Jonny and Jess have been glued to Crufts this week and are delighted that a hairy wee dog that rejoices in the name of Fabulous Willy is the overall winner of Best in Show. With a name like that, how could the wee fella lose?
Teehee!

Hi again folks!

I'm almost embarrassed to write anything here, since I'm sure most people think I've dropped off the planet. I'm going to try to be better at updating, I promise.

Thr trouble with being a retired person is that you end up taking on more than you ever did when you worked full time, but it's all in bits and pieces here and there. People think my life is idyllic and peaceful, which it is, mostly, but in order to maintain that idyll, I have to keep on top of everything, which hasn't exactly been happening lately.

BUT nine months after her house fire, yesterday my M-I-L finally moved into her new little cottage. I've spent the last few weeks chasing workmen, hanging curtains and trying to fathom out what M-I-L *really* wants - example conversation while making up her new bed:

Me (admiring lovely new duvet cover and sheets): Doesn't it look pretty? All you need now is a nice valance round the bottom to cover the base.

M-I-L: Oh I'm not going to bother with one of those. It's fine the way it is.

Me:Are you sure? It would finish it off.

M-I-LYes, quite sure - they're too much bother. It's a pity I didn't get a mattress cover though. I think I should.

Me: I'll get you one in town later and we can put it on before you go to bed.

Later, when I return from town with a mattress cover.

M-I-L: That's not what I wanted.

Me: Yes it is, you asked for a mattress cover.

M-I-LNo I didn't. I wanted one of those valance trims to cover the base. A nice white one to match the duvet.

Argh!!!

One of my friends has a personality test on her blog and since I've been spending time re-learning about the Myers-Briggs tests and enneagrams etc in the course of my study, I gave it a try. Despite a very few questions, it actually got my type right and apparently it's rare too (although not as rare as yours, N. I think all the types can be classed as rare since there are sixteen to choose from!
This is me:

Your Personality is Very Rare (INFP)

Your personality type is dreamy, romantic, elegant, and expressive. Only about 5% of all people have your personality, including 6% of all women and 4% of all men You are Introverted, Intuitive, Feeling, and Perceiving.

How Rare Is Your Personality?

Tuesday mornings are my usual time for chatting on IM with my friend from Missouri. We've known each other for about five years now and become real pals over the ether, sharing the good times and bad, variously cheering, encouraging and commiserating with one another. Today I'm worried for my friend after reports of appalling weather in Missouri here. She works fifteen miles away from her home, which is pretty isolated. Even if she did make it home, the power cuts would make things more than difficult. Her house is as old as mine - more than 150 years - and seems to be hanging on by a thread to life. If, as I'm hoping, she's decided to stay in town with one of her nieces, then I know she'll be worrying about her animals at home. These things always make me feel so helpless, especially when I know someone who might be suffering. Hang in there, Loretta!

On a happier note, I've been hearing people talking about a new American import on Channel 4, Ugly Betty. It was even recommended by our rector on this blog, so I decided I had to see for myself. By the wonder of the wwweb I was able to watch the first episode (albeit subtitled in French, which actually made picking up the US dialogue slightly easier!) and then through the similar wonders of Freeview I was also able to see episode 2, this time with breaks for adverts but no subtitles, alas.

Was I impressed? Hmm. It's a comedy, right, so the characters have to be exaggerated, predictable and a bit stereotypical. As with most situation comedies, the viewer needs to be one step ahead - to see the disasters that await the character before they happen and then laugh smugly when the character reacts in the prescribed way. That's how situation comedy works. The viewer feels superior to the hapless buffoon. It's a good formula and I admit it's present in my favourite comedies - the Vicar of Dibley, My Family etc. Ugly Betty is no different, which is a pity - it would have been nice to see something a little out of the ordinary.

So is Ugly Betty going to turn into Beautiful Betty during the course of the show? I must say I don't like the title - it makes me uncomfortable. Poor Betty isn't really ugly at all - she's a pretty actress with added glasses, braces (on seemingly perfect teeth) and outmoded clothes. Everyone else in the show is beautiful, with the exception of Betty's boyfriend - a girl with the disadvantages of glasses and braces etc has to be content with a chinless loser, naturally. Of course she has brains, which fits nicely with the stereotype. I'm going to watch some more to see if, by any stroke of good fortune, the writers bother to develop the characters. If Betty is as bright as she's made out to be, she'll get her Scottish pal to give her a makeover, ditch the braces - her teeth are fixed! - and invest in some contact lenses or more becoming specs. But will she then shed her integrity along with her Seventies clothes? I doubt if either will happen.

Living together

Sitting here surrounded by snoring dogs - my own two and my granddog, Hamish, who is staying over - I can't help thinking how much easier it is to get along with dogs than people. Dogs are simple creatures with simple, basic needs that can be easily - if not always conveniently, given the current weather - satisfied. Then they settle down at your feet and adore you. Deal.

My younger son and the contents of his house have come to stay for an indefinite period and we're both finding it hard to readjust to living together. It's been a while. Last time he was here for any length of time he was getting over the break-up of his marriage and needed cherishing. No problem - that's what mothers do. But now I'm having trouble shaking off the parent/child relationship and acknowledging him as an adult/equal. Rob suggests I think of him as a guest and treat him accordingly, but I've never entertained a guest who stays in bed all day and prowls around at night and who eats at such strange times. I worry that I have no control over him, and yet why should I?

Who is this young man who is at once so familiar and yet is a stranger? I have no parental model to fall back on. My relationship with my mother remained much the same until she died a few years ago. We were never apart for long so if any changes came about they were subtle. We didn't have to make any sudden adjustments. Our relationship remained in the parent/child dynamic. With my father, it reversed after my mother died and I became the 'parent'. That happened gradually, I suppose, although neither of us was aware of the change as it happened - it just did. Obviously neither I nor Paul are ready for that role reversal, and so we must work on viewing each other as equals.

Five things you didn't know about me

Hmm - thanks Mrs Blethers! I suppose you've shamed me into blogging again. So if anyone's out there, here are five things you probably don't know about me:

1. I repeated a year of primary school. This was, I believe, because I was considered too young and immature to go to secondary school at the age of ten. Somehow, between moving from Bristol to Leeds at age five I lost a year. I repeated primary five with a terrifying teacher called Miss Wilson, who suddenly became my friend second time round and ceased from writing scathing comments on my miserable, blot-ridden efforts at writing and even allowed me to play Puck in the end of term production of Midsummer Night's Dream (edited highlights) by dint of my being able to turn a cartwheel.

2. I have won three prizes in my life. One was a runner's-up cup in the school sports. One was a 'Bedside Guardian' for a Christmas story in that paper; the story was 'The Gospel According to St Mousethew' and was an account of the Nativity from the POV of a mouse. The last was a big red and cream vacuum flask from Maxwell House Coffee, and I had no recollection of entering the competition when it arrived. Hmm - nothing really changes . . .

3. I have three kidneys. This was discovered during hospital investigations for recurring infections. Apparently there is neither advantage nor disadvantage in having an extra one, which is rather disappointing. I wonder if I have any other spare parts.

4. I was in Czechoslovakia in 1968 immediately preceeding the Prague Spring. The Russians invaded while I was there with my brother. We brought a Czech boy back to Glasgow with us - he was my brother's pen-friend - and he stayed with us for eight months, during which time his father defected to Switzerland.

5. I was once mother to a woodpigeon called George. My grandad brought him home from the woods for me when he was a squab and had fallen out of the nest. He wasn't fledged and had a voracious appetite for porridge, which I fed him by forcing it down his throat with a pencil. Despite this apparently cruel treatment he thrived and grew into a fine woodpigeon. Trouble was, he didn't know he was a pigeon and meant to fly. He followed me about all over the place, waddling like a duck. Eventually I persuaded him to fly by pushing him off a wall a few times. After that, he remained with us until the spring when he disappeared - presumably to find a wife and have an egg. Actually, I have no idea if he was George or Georgina.

There. You really wanted to know all that, didn't you?

In another life . . .

. . . I was a Primary teacher at Calderwood Lodge. Yesterday my pal Ingrid joined the ranks of the officially retired and we gave her a right good send-off. It was splendid to see all the old guard once more, even though few of us are still at Calderwood. It seems to have been taken over by young things in jeans. Trouble is, it seems no time since I was a young thing in jeans. I'm still wearing the jeans . . .

Listening to the gossip I realised how far away from it all I've become; not just school but the whole Jewish yearly round. To my shame I even forgot all about the High Holidays that have just been - it's all fallen off my radar. I need to keep in touch with my Jewish friends more. I was also reminded how much I love Jewish catering - the food at the party was to die for. And yet in another way it was almost as if the intervening four years had never been. Everyone looks just the same and we laughed and joked and reminisced and commiserated the way we always did. I don't want to step back into the past, but it's nice, sometimes, to poke a toe in again.

Talking of toes: I've bought some horribly expensive stuff to zap the wart/verruca/extrusion on my big toe. This is all because I'm too chicken to go to a chiropodist (I have tickly feet - okay?) and the usual wart/verruca/extrusion remedies all contain salicylic acid, which is really aspirin by any other name and gives me a pain in the pinny. Said horribly expensive stuff comes with dire warnings of skin turning black and toes dropping off! Eeek!!

Bloggishness returns

It's been so long since I blogged that Blogspot seems to have forgotten who I am! This may be a temporary return to bloggishness, but I do miss it and am hoping to get back into Blogland soon.

Family news: M-I-L is still with us and far from being any trouble, is making herself useful. My house has never been so dusted and the dogs are delighted to have company when I'm out, which seems to be frequently at present - maybe that's why we're getting along okay. Less happily, I'm seriously worried about my sister-in-law. Please pray for her if you're so inclined. It looks as if Paul's going to live in Nottingham. I wonder if that means I'll see more of him . . .

Friends next: It's great to see Mrs Blethers becoming a rising star in Blogland. I do like to bathe in others' reflected glory *g*. It looks as if Bishop Martin has also joined the Worshipful Company of Bloggers. A belated welcome, my Lord Bishop. And finally, Walter has finished the book that his visit to Scotland a year ago inspired. Gaun yersel' son!

Me: I need to get September/October out of the way before normal service can be resumed.

Black Bounty

A dog walker is rarely out without a poly bag or two. Just as well today, when I found myself lured by greedy visions of brambles baked into crumbles and made into jelly, and best of all, stewed with sugar and port and eaten with yogurt.

I was out walking at Ardentinny, a little off the beaten track so the dogs didn't disturb the folk on the beach, or worse, nick their sandwiches and barbecued bangers. I'd picked a few brambles there at the weekend, but today there were hundreds in all their shiny, polished glory, black and glossy and beautiful. Unfortunately bramblers have to compete with Nature in the form of bluebottles and wasps, so these days I always cook the brambles rather than eat them raw - although I have consumed so many in my life I must have eaten any number of wee beasties!

There's something so satisfying about getting a free meal that I don't mind the scratches or the occasional extra protein.

Broaching the Subject

The subject in question being Fidelio. We had a great sail yesterday - sun and a good wind from the north. We took Jess along but left Jonny sunning himself in the garden since he's not a keen sea-dog. Jess, however, is happy wherever I am so donned her wee doggy life-jacket happily and even consented to being tied to the boat when things became a bit exciting.

We beat all the way down past the point at Ardentinny and to the entrance to Loch Goil. It took nearly five hours, although they passed so quickly I found it hard to believe when I looked at my watch. Of course a delicious picnic helped - BLT and plenty of tea.

We were one and a quarter hours coming home! We flew! And broached three times - my first experience of this scary loss of control. Trouble was, the wind was both behind us AND coming from the side, channelling down the glens. Rob had the spinnaker up and was using it more like a fore-sail, twitching away at the strings to catch the wind just so, and I had the tiller - in both hands half the time as we scooted along tipped right over. At the first broach I had no idea what to do, since all the steering equipment must have been out of the water and no matter how hard I pulled, I had no control. Fidelio turned herself into the wind and everything flapped alarmingly. Lucky that Jess was tied in or we'd have had dog overboard as well!

I was more ready for the second broach, which was actually even worse because Rob lost his hold on the spinnaker line, but I just let Fidelio have her head this time and we recovered fine. After that the spinnaker came down - so rapidly and hard that it appeared through the chute from the other end. We broached again with just the sail, but then the wind stopped blowing from the side and things calmed down enough to put the spinnaker up again and whizz home leaving a teriffic wake behind us. What a pity the thing that tells the speed isn't working. I'd love to know how fast we were going. Certainly faster than other boats that were motoring!

I think I've just had the sailing equivalent of being bloodied!

Airport Alert

Chaos at the airports! Today some very good friends from the US were due to fly home early this morning. I feel awful for them - are they still hanging about at the airport? Would their plane have been one of the ones targetted? When they do eventually get on a plane, how terrifying will it be? They're not exactly in the first flush of youth or the best of health. I can't contact them, so I'll just have to sit here biting my nails and praying until I hear they're safely home.

Mellow fruitfulness

It's hardly autumn, although some of the trees up the rectory drive seem to think it is and are dropping yellow leaves, but my garden is producing all manner of delicious provender and that makes me very happy. Today I made a summer pudding with a selection of berries (raspberries, wild strawberries, blueberries and the first few precious redcurrants from my new bush) and two rhubarb crumbles. Yesterday we ate new potatoes (Nicola), peas (meteor) and tiny courgettes. I wanted carrots but that would really be cradle-snatching - I'll have to be patient another week at least. My gooseberry bushes are bowed under the weight of fruit and they'll be the next candidates for crumble, pie or maybe just stewed. The early raspberries are nearly done, but the later ones are just beginning. I've frozen the best ones and made jam with the poor relations.

May I just say, YUM!

P.S. The only disappointment is the apple tree which hardly ever bears any fruit and is barren again this year despite a good lot of blossom. Methinks I'll have to get it a little friend.

Sad but true

So my sister-in-law buys this candle and it's decorated with some fancy stuff which is labeled 'inflammable'. She lights the candle and after a while the decoration catches fire. So she writes to the makers of the candle: you said the decoration on your candle was inflammable and here it's gone up in flames!

Who'da thunkit?

A Life on the Ocean Wave - again

The trouble with taking pictures of your boat in action is that you're usually on it. At best you can get pictures of bits of sail or rigging and they usually have sploshes of water or are at odd angles. If you phone your friend as you sail past their house, by the time they find the camera and run out, you're probably a dot on the horizon. However, this seems to be the only way I'll get a photo of Fidelio in full sail. Meantime, here's one of her deck, taken from Blairmore pier on the Open Day a couple of weeks ago.

Well that was fun

Yesterday's jolly at the church hit the spot on so many levels I can't decide where to begin.

First the sun shone - a good omen, especially as the ever-present midges prefer damp weather and the church looks so pretty on a sunny day. The service was two hours long but for me it didn't seem so because I felt engaged all the way through. This was partly because I had to sit right at the front with the choir and so felt part of the proceedings and partly because I had three things to do - which I suppose was rather excessive, but there are so few folk to spread the jobs around.

It was so nice to see so many people from St Ninian's, which was my church when I lived in Glasgow (we've all got older and greyer and people kept telling me I look like my mother, which is a compliment I think because she was a great character) and I really enjoyed being surrounded by so many friends from all over.

But the very best thing about yesterday was the fellowship within our own congregation. For once church politics were forgotten, grouches laid aside and everyone pulled together to put on a splendid occasion. There was real warmth from the people who welcomed the new rector into our church. Everyone had taken part in some way to make the day happen and I felt we all shared a sense of possession, if that's the right word, of the whole. Our lovely bishop, with his warmth and sincerity and exuberance, made it feel like a family occasion which combined dignity with a pleasing degree of comfortable informality which is something I love about this diocese.

And speaking of informality - while I'm all for children in church, I do think a two hour service is a bit much for a baby and the one who attended yesterday was vociferous in its protest. Sometimes it was difficult even for me at the very front to hear above the racket. When you have children you have to make certain sacrifices in your life - sleep, for example - but it really is rather bad manners to inflict a bawling baby on a trapped audience who can't escape. I'd have thought a little walk in the Bishop's Glen to distract it or help it to sleep would have been better for all concerned. Just my opinion, of course, as a Grumpy Old Woman, but when the bishop, who in another life is an opera singer, has to raise his voice to be heard, what chance do the rest of us have?

Finally . . .

. . . managed to solve the insurance problem by changing my underwriter. I spoke to a much more intelligent and creative person on the help-line and hopefully all is now well and my friend can drive. *Phew* Life can get so complicated!

We're all gearing up here for the institution of our new rector on Tuesday *waves to KB*. My computer table is covered with notes reminding me of all the things I have to remember to ask people. Whatever did we do before the advent of the Yellow Sticky? We're expecting arout 100 folk, which will severely test the seating capacity at Holy T, not to mention the car-parking. I just hope they don't arrive too early, because our other problem has echoes of Clochemerle. The general opinion has been, up to now, that if the back of the graveyard and the trees have been good enough since c.1840, why would we want to spend good money on plumbing?

Anyway, my prediction is that when we all reconvene at the Catholic church's splendidly appointed hall for the bunfight after the service, there will be a dirty dive for the loos!

Ranty ranty rant!

Oh I so hate bureaucracy! Grr! Gnash!

All I want to do is help out a couple of friends who are over from America by lending them my car for a few weeks. It's an ancient little thing and if I wanted rid of it I'd probably have to pay someone to take it away, but it runs just fine. My friends aren't planning to drive the length and breadth of the country, just around and about where they're staying.

First it didn't pass its MOT, but that had to be sorted anyway and now it is. Last week I phoned my insurance company to ask if it would be possible to have my friend put on the insurance temporarily. I mentioned that he was American and visiting and held a current US driver's license which has always been okay for a hire car and they said, sure, no problem, just phone us with the details when you're ready. Today I phoned with the details and all I got was a 'no'. This despite my friend's impeccable credentials, current clean US license etc etc. Apparently if you don't have a UK license, you can't be insured - even third party, fire and theft which is the minimum standard.

It's enough to make you want to hit someone (the smug b****** on the end of the phone would be a good start).

Pants!

Update

Things are looking up again on the home front. Mum-in-law has decided not to go back to her house, even when it's repaired, but look for somewhere near us and we may have found her a cottage. It's in the grounds of a 'hotel for the elderly', as these places are euphemistically called round here, but is entirely self contained. She would have as much independence as she wanted, but if the need arose, there would be back-up in the form of medical attention or meals or whatever from the main house. It sounds ideal, so fingers crossed.

We've rescued quite a lot of stuff from the fire - mostly china and glassware and a few pots and pans that can be cleaned up and papers and photos that were tucked away in drawers - smoke-damaged but definitely worth saving.

The boat is proving a splendid distraction. Yesterday saw Himself and me up early to catch a very low spring tide. We met at our village pier - he with the boat, I with a ladder on top of the car. We then proceeded to provide entertainment for the patrons of the pier café and several passers by as Himself climbed a lamp-post (a special pier lamp-post that has a signal light on top - I don't know what it's called) with the aid of the ladder, while I hauled in Fidelio's mast so that he could reach the very top and replace the wind-direction thingy. We only discovered this was broken after we'd enlisted the help of the crane at the marina to raise the mast and we've been trying to figure out how to get at the top of it without actually shimmying up. However, after this slick manoeuvre we proved ourselves complete amateurs by leaving a fender tied to the stepladder. When we realised it wasn't there and returned to the pier to pick it up, we came in a mite too fast and hit the pier with a mighty crunch (okay I hit it, being the driver). Luckily no damage ensued apart from a tiny dent in the pulpit which I wouldn't even have noticed was there had it not been pointed out to me *g*. They should issue boats with bumpers!

Up in Smoke

My mum-in-law's house went on fire on Wednesday night and within half an hour she lost everything - except the most precious thing of all, herself. She showed remarkable presence of mind for an old lady and dialled 999 as soon as she saw the smoke and then got herself out of the house. With two fire engines, police, ambulance, the gas and electricity boards and most of the neighbours in attendance, she then watched her whole life go up in flames.

Fortunately my husband's cousin stays round the corner and was able to take her in and look after her, and let us know what had happened. We were just on our way to bed when we got the phonecall - that heart-plummeting moment when the phone goes late at night - you just know it's bad news. Our first instinct was to drop everything and go to her, but living with ferries has its disadvantages and we soon realised it wasn't an option at that time of night and neither was driving up the peninsula since the car had about 5ml of diesel in the tank, so we had to stay put until first thing next morning.

How do you tell an old lady of 86 that she has nothing left but the clothes she stands up in? It just doesn't seem to have sunk in and I must say it's pretty hard for the family to take on board as well. At least Rob abd I knew what to expect having been through this before when our son's flat went up several Christmases ago. But it's hard to be prepared for the awful blackness and the smell, not to mention the contents of the house being in a sorry heap in the back garden.

The fire seems to have been started by the electricity meter (which mysteriously disappeared after Scottish Power came to disconnect the supply). The meter cupboard at the front door held coats and a couple of Hoovers. All that's left of them is a puddle of melted plastic. The forensic fire investigator is busy doing a reconstruction job to back up his assertion that the meter was to blame. That's pretty scary, considering all the fail-safe devices that are supposed to be in place there.

So we took her out and bought her some toiletries and some new clothes to be going on with, but at the age of 86, she has to start all over again. The insurance assessor has written everything off - the smoke damage was incredible - but we've managed to rescue her jewellery, her silver tea-set and her jelly pan (her most prized possession) and twenty pounds of assorted jams and marmalade might be salvagable although I think they're probably a little over-cooked.

I hope that if I live to be that age, I'm as sanguine and composed as Mum. I know it's only stuff, and I know she still hasn't grasped all the facts and implications, but wow - she's one tough old bird!