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.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Friday, April 25, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, April 14, 2008
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!
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!
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
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.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
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
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
Friday, March 21, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
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.
Sunday, March 02, 2008
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,
Saturday, February 16, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, February 07, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
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 unemployedwoopee! 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*
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
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*
Friday, January 25, 2008
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?
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
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 . . .
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
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?
Monday, January 07, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, January 03, 2008
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 . . .
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 . . .
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
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.
"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.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
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 :)
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 :)
Friday, December 21, 2007
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.
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.
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