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!

Show that you're some swimmer!

Mrs Blethers and I have taken up swimming in the early morning in a vain attempt to ward off the effects of gravity and the march of time on our aged bods. It so happens I have to be in the vicinity of the baths at around 7.30 am these days and since she lives a hop and a skip away, we decided to take the plunge, so to speak (although actual plungeing is strictly verboten and has been ever since I can remember at our baths. There used to be a springboard but you weren't allowed to spring from it).

We both used to be pretty good swimmers in the past, but while she still has a fine style, I swim like an old lady with my head above the water these days. I really must try out some goggles. I just have this problem of feeling blind without my specs or contacts and adding goggles would be like insult to injury. I once tried swimming with contacts in - actually I forgot to take them out - but they swelled up to about the size of saucers and floated away. Driving home was interesting.

BUT - I feel all virtuous and exercised! Getting home to the dogs raring to go for a walk was a bit of a bummer, but I told myself it would be doing me even more good and off we went up the hill. As it turned out, virtue had its reward because I saw a cuckoo clear as anything (it looks a bit like a dissolute kestrel with droopy wings) sitting atop a pine tree. It obliged me by flying across the golf course cucking and ooing so I was able to pinpoint it.

Another life on the ocean wave (I suspect I'm going to become boring on this)

It's so long since I posted here that Blogger asked me for my user name and password, neither of which I could remember. :/

At last yesterday, Rob and I got out for a sail in Fidelio. We'd been waiting all weekend, but the weather was too poor. On Sunday the wind was really strong and gusty and even the seasoned sailors didn't go out, but yesterday there was actually some sun and the wind, although flukey, was manageable. During Fidelio's transportation from Loch Earn the wee arrow-thingy at the top of the mast got broken by an inconveniently placed tree and now is no use whatsoever in telling us which way the wind's coming from so we had to rely on the old fashioned way. This was fine, except it behaved in a most capricious manner, changing direction in an instant and going from flat calm to 'OMG we're going to capsize' in a way that certainly gave us some practice!

And talking of practice, I'll need to practise hopping nimbly onto the pontoon from her when we attempt to park - or whatever boats do - in our berth. Yesterday was a distinctly inelegant homecoming and we just managed to avoid ramming our next-door neighbour as I made it onto the pontoon but failed to put the rope round the cleat and pull backwards in time to stop Fidelio bumping her nose on the walkway. Fortuantely no damage ensued although I daresay our reputation in the eyes of the salty old guys who seem to live in their boats and view us and our bumbling around with amusement has been further lowered.

Oh and my sermon went okay on Sunday, as far as I know. I decided to do a little PR on behalf of the Worship Group, since it seems we are to blame for all the ills in the church according to some members of the congregation. I think they're under the impression that we take over every few Sundays out of choice, thus banishing the priest and forcing him/her to Rothesay in order to fulfil his/her sacerdotal obligations. Or maybe they think it's an ego thing. Whatever, it could hardly be further from the truth. But at leat one of the 'antis' came up to me afterwards and said, "If your raison d'etre is to keep the church open and available every Sunday then I'm all for it."

I'll take that as a positive then.

A Life on the Ocean Wave . . .

My life has suddenly become incredibly full and busy this month, although mostly in a good way. It's exam month and my services are required at the school several times a week - maths today and I don't even get a lunch-break! But the exciting thing is, Rob and I have suddenly become boat owners thanks to the incredible generosity of a dear friend who finds she no longer has room for a boat in her life. So we are now the lucky owners of Fidelio, a 21 ft sailing boat - small but perfectly formed as they say.

Since we live on the shore it would seem sensible to put down a mooring outside the front door, but our particular bit of shore has rocks the size of double-decker buses under the water and the currents are dodgy too, so we've opted to berth her in the local marina where you just walk along a wooden pontoon and step aboard - infinitely preferable to getting your bum soaked in a rubber dinghy before you even set off IMO. I'm not sure how impressed the dogs will be with our new acquisition. They've been on her before and spent nearly all the time sitting on top of me. However, they weren't frightened of the sail, as a previous dog of ours was and I'm hoping we can persuade them to curl up below and snooze eventually.

I tried the extrovert test and I seem to be more extrovert than I thought! It must be the jollity of May.

Your Extroversion Profile:

Activity Level: High

Cheerfulness: High

Friendliness: High

Assertiveness: Medium

Sociability: Medium

Excitement Seeking: Very Low

How Extroverted Are You?

Retirement

Today we had a leaving party for our dear Rector, Hugh. I hate to see him leave us, and even though I know he's going to be around Dunoon for the foreseeable future, it's hard to let go. It's amazing to think it's only been five years. We did him a great send-off though!

We had a delicious lunch in Chatters, followed by various speeches and tributes. His two wee grandsons ran around both looking like miniature Hughs and one eventually fell asleep in grandpa's arms. Awwwww! My Psalm 23.5 had another outing, sung by Chris, John, Dennis and myself in plainsong, to much gratifying giggling from the assembled crowd and I compounded the poor man's embarrassment by writing him a hymn which we all sang lustily at the end:

Now thank we all our Hugh
With hearts and hands and voices,
Who wondrous things doth do
For which his flock rejoices.
Who with the help of God
Doth guide us on our way,
Who for this daunting job
We’re here to thank today.

Now Hugh is sixty five,
It’s time for him to go now.
Oh who will sweep the drive
And who the grass will mow now?
And who will light the fires
Or chop down all the wood?
Or shimmy up the spire
And make the gutters good?

Hugh came to us from Crieff
We thought he was a loner,
But after courtship brief
Was wedded on Iona.
Now Hugh is wreathed in smiles
With rainbows all around,
He’s joined the Francophiles
And true love he has found.

All praise and thanks to Hugh
Our friend and inspiration.
For it’s all down to you,
This church’s transformation.
You showed us how to love
Each person in each pew,
So praise to God above
Who sent his servant Hugh!

Jesus wants me for a . . .

Two swallows on the wire and a cuckoo cucking and ooing in the Bishop's Glen means summer approaches. I've begun to oil the garden furniture (the seat fell to pieces, alas) and rashly cast various clouts despite May being a mere smear of green buds rather than oot. Watch this space.

Meanwhile, I must brush up on wifeliness. It appears I don't even rate as an okay Christian wife according to this blog: How to be a good Christian wife. This chick has to be kidding. I can't believe she really thinks she should be up and in full make-up at the breakfast table - but not sitting down, in case the noise of her chair scraping as she leaps up to replenish the toast-rack should disturb her Husband (note the capital) as he tucks into his bacon and eggs and reads the paper (which she has previously ironed, no doubt).

Apparently I SHOULD NOT POUT if dear Husband fails to deliver a smacker as he leaves for work. Nor should I pout if he doesn't enjoy the snack I've thoughtfully provided (a fat husband is a faithful husband) on his return. And I should just get me to the kitchen and bake more cakes and pastries to harden his arteries if he doesn't want to talk to me after dinner. She doesn't mention blogging as a post prandial pastime. I wonder when she does hers . . . before breakfast while she's applying the lippy?

But the BEST BIT is at the end. I quote: "And of course, you will be pleasing Jesus and isn't that what it's all about?"

Jesus wants me to kill my Husband???

I think it's a joke . . .

Playing Among the Stars

I was going to blog about last night's gig in Tighnabruaich, but Mrs Blethers beat me to it. It was like a step back in time. One of these events that takes you swirling back to your childhood and the church hall where people got up and did 'turns'.

Regrettably, I seem to have remained in that childhood because I still had to sweat and clamp my mouth shut to keep the giggles at bay. There is just something delightfully absurd and rather comforting about 'people of a certain age' (as Chris calls us) juggling specs and scrappy bits of paper with the words written on in case they forget and starting off in the wrong key and generally bumbling about. The actual performances, when they got going, weren't half bad for the most part, which was just as well because, as I've said before, my giggle threshhold is low, and anyway, we had our turn to do right at the end (fortunately not too many had gone home although by the time we went on it must have been well past their bed-time. It was certainly past mine!)

So that's our first gig over. It went okay, despite the incredibly bright lights suddenly dimming just at a page turn. No scrappy bits of paper for us. I felt it was almost cheating to stand there with the music in front of me after all the feats of memory that had preceded us.

Naked!

Poor Jess. She so hates going to the furdresser. It's not so much the experience of being there that is traumatic, although she is entirely uncooperative (unlike JD who adores being pampered), but the aftermath when she has to face the world effectively naked.

Jess feels the heat. When her coat's thick she pants in the least amount of heat and sits in any shallow water she can find (unlike her usual hydrophobic behaviour). She also goes into a panic if anything gets tangled up in her fur. The other day she threw a wobbler because she'd somehow managed to get bits of thistle stuck to her foot and behind. Since she's pretty low slung, it's inevitable she'll pick up stuff where we walk. So off to the furdresser she goes every three months.

She comes out looking gorgeous. Christine does a great job with both of them but Jess in particular suits a short coat with her ears and feathers left long but trimmed tidy. Trouble is, she considers herself naked and scuttles away to hide in the manner of someone caught with no clothes on (last night's 'Hustle' comes to mind with the naked Micky and Danny scuttling through the streets of London - pause to wipe brow and reinsert tongue in mouth). This morning she's still deeply embarrassed and has taken to her bed once more, hugging Rob's slipper.

Poor, traumatised baby!

After the Resurrection

Easter seems an age ago and yet this time last week we were sunk in the gloom of Good Friday! It was a good last Easter at HT for Hugh for lots of reasons. We hosted the town's Easter Songs of Praise, which as usual, Hugh made different from what folk are used to. The service was an arc - a parabola - beginning meditatatively from the cry of the penitent thief on the cross in the form of a Taizé chant, then gradually growing to a crescendo, using appropriate hymns and readings from John's gospel and finishing with communion (I am the Bread of Life). There were a few murmurings about 'proper hymns' (ie Victorian ones) at the end but most folk seemed uplifted by the whole thing.

Our little choir, Eight Plus One, became Four Plus One and we sang 'How Can I Keep From Singing' from the sanctuary arch. It went pretty well - fortunately the Four represented each of the four parts. I could feel myself sagging on the last note, no matter how hard I tried to keep it in tune :( It wasn't a high note, just a long one. Hopefully not too many folk noticed. Tomorrow night in Tighnabruaich I'll try to do better. At least we'll be Eight and I'll have a soprano ii mate. John is taking the keyboard and on Tuesday we tried 'Fly Me to the Moon' with the fake kit-drum rhythm. It sounded excellent to my ears, although I suspect we'll never quite come up to John's hopes. (I'm thinking of buying him a pair of cymbals to strap to his knees so he can be a complete one-man-band. On Sunday night he was playing the organ - hands and feet - directing the congregation and singing a solo obbligato thingy to 'Ubi Caritas').