Just another entry

Real life takes over. It grabs by the the scruff of the neck and demands total engagement. Routine and change, long hours trying to keep on top of my work load. No head space from which to blog. 

It isn't all work, though.  I recently  took a mini-break to London where I bought retro jewellery and wool in Camden Passage,  a filigree heart and a tiny bronze figure of a tribesman  in Portobello Road, called in the Persephone  bookshop in Lamb's Conduit Street  and  travelled up and down the town from Clerkenwell to Richmond to Greenwich, courtesy of an off-peak travel card.


Then Margaret Thatcher died.I didn't celebrate. It seems unhuman to celebrate the death of anyone, even someone one profoundly disagreed with.  I did listen to this song and understood the sentiment, though.

New Year For Birds

Lots of birds in the garden. Plenty of greenfinches today, plus coal, blue and great tits, a robin, a female chaffinch, a handful of goldfinches and a magpie, who clumsily balances on a thin branch to get at the sunflower seeds. One of the great tits is a giant (a giant in the world of little birds). With his long tail and body, he's the same size as a sparrow. I love watching them.

 I think I'll be listening to the Staves a lot next year. They make such a beautiful sound.(Click on the link.)

The Staves - Facing West

The day after yesterday...

...otherwise known as Boxing Day or, if you are a Catholic or tend towards the  higher reaches of the Anglican candle, St Stephen's Day. 

The name Boxing Day derives from  the tradition of the well-to-do giving money or gifts to fill up the  Christmas boxes of tradespeople and servants. All very Downton Abbey (a bit more of that later). St Stephen  was an unfortunate chap who turned up in the 'Acts of the Apostles', attempted to preach the Word and got stoned to death for his efforts, an image that's a little at odds with turkey sandwiches and Match of the Day.

Despite my recent blogging about my personal faith, I didn't go to church, though I did listen to choirs singing on radio 3 on Sunday, whilst I warmed samosas  and made some hummus - a poor excuse but there you go.  I cooked dinner, didn't drink too much but did watch a lot of telly, tuning in to housewives specials such as 'Call the Midwife' and 'Downton Abbey'. I get laughed at work by some of my more intellectual colleagues for liking 'Call the Midwife'  but, for all its cosiness, I do like how it reminds us of what a difference the NHS made to ordinary people's lives.The part about the poor old girl who lost all her children in the workhouse may have been over-sentimentalised but such stories are not derived from fiction.

On Downton Abbey, far more of a Tory favourite, I imagine, with its nostalgic view of the hard-working, loyal lower classes who certainly knew their place and woe betide  them if they didn't, the blue-eyed-boy from the 'Line of Beauty' ended up dead in a ditch, reminding us that death is no respecter of class. Likewise, the cousins in the Glens were there to remind us that even the poshest of toffs will find their lives sad and empty if deprived of love. (That last bit sounds a bit like a Vanessa Redgrave's voice-over in 'Call the Midwife'.)

Much less preachy and a lot more fun, the 1995 film adaptation of 'Restoration' with Robert Downey Jnr. on one of the cable channels was a jolly picaresque through the ..err.. Restoration..as experienced by physician come wastrel Robert Merivale. It didn't do justice to the book but a comic cameo from Hugh Grant as an ambitious and foppish artist and a good turn as a Puritan doctor from David Thewlis lent it something, and Robert Downey Jnr. was funny and cute.

Today it's raining, so I have postponed my walk  and shall, instead, try to write a 50 words story for the book gathering on Saturday. I think that calls for a guilt free, festive, Feast of St Stephen brandy and a few chocoates.

Advent

Cold, cold, cold. The  frost nips and the sun shines and  it's the very first day of Advent. The run up to Christmas Day; the run up to the birth of sheer goodness and innocence: the birth of very Light of the World. Sceptics and cynics may scoff but I love it. Not only Christians but Pagans celebrate the rebirth of the light each year. And, whilst the Saturnalian aspect is pretty upfront, the Christian part of the festival still calls out to those who want to listen. The birth of the baby down among the animals, the visitation of the Angels and the visit of the Shepherds, followed in Epiphany by the Wise Men with their gifts of frankincense, gold and myrrh is about as precious a story as you can get.

Of course, the early Church stole the festival. We all know Jesus wasn't born on Christmas Day but, at the time the Christiansiers did  this,  it probably made perfect sense. The remnants of  paganism are never far away as we celebrate the middle of winter - for who can ignore the power of   Nature? - but  the forgiving face of the Christian God is there to be discovered should you wish to find it.

The imperfection of the Christian Church is legion and the latest debacle  over women bishops in the Anglican Church does nothing to endear it to secular folks and many within its ranks, myself included, despair at the conservative attitudes of those who fail to understand the rightness of equality. Yet, when I light a candle on cold winter's night and await the birth (symbolic or otherwise) of the child who was born to King, my heart cannot help but sing a merry tune.

A candle in the winter night

Autumn's nearly through and advent is closing in. Soon it will be dark at ten to four and I'll be burning a Christmas candle and reflecting on the circular nature of existence. Writing this blog for a number of years has made me as aware of the significance of the different times of the year as did the times I spent in Church becoming  increasingly aware of its calendar.  I ought to go to Church more but it doesn't feel quite right at the moment. I don't always feel at home in my local church but my faith still glows like a candle on a winter's night.

.

Image from: The People's Commons

Red and Twittering

I've changed my page colour and gone all red and vibrant with a hint of cosy. It's redder than my new hair colour.  I've also got into Twitter a bit. It's not all mindless and suits my ever so slightly compulsive streak. So far, I've had three followers. One of them left within a week, the other had a very bizarre web page which seemed like some kind of anti-Semitic cult (I blocked him) and the other is the TES resources page, which must have automatically cross referenced my email which makes up part of my Twitter address. Still, it's quite nice to be followed by the off-shoot of a national institution.

I decide to follow Jeanette Winterson after reading her wise and feisty memoir 'Why be happy when you can be normal'  about growing up with a megalomaniac for an adoptive mother. The book revisits the events which inspired 'Oranges are not the only fruit', Winterson's first novel.  A wonderful book that I would recommend to anyone. In terms of Twitter, it might be viewed as a  bit weird or even sad to be 'following' intelligent 'celebs' like Ms Winterson, Mark Gattiss and the bubbly historian and keeper of Royal Palaces Lucy Worsley but, on the other hand, it's quite fun. Like a sort of virtual dinner party with people who seem  rather interesting, as super Twitterer Stephen Fry might put it.

 I get so many news tweets from The Gruniad that I have to scroll down a long way to see what Lucy's up to: presenting a programme on BBC 4 next week about an eccentric female culinary historian who went to Africa and, later on,  wrote a history of British food.  So it's not all mindless drivel, despite an actor informing his followers, of whom I am currently one, that Virgin Trains smell of wee. Meanwhile Giles Fraser informs me he lost his jacket before appearing on News Night and felt under dressed whilst conversing with one of the brothers Milliband at some fancy reception or other. I'm sure such an interesting cultural life fits in nicely with running an inner London Parish. Whatever, it really is quite diverting to read about the lives of mildy interesting actors, writers and liberal clerics, whilst commuting to work on a packed out bus, while the rain just keeps on raining and I suffer from start of term nerves and wish I existed in a less-exhausting environment.

As for my own tweets, well it's a bit like that Billy Idol song 'Dancing with Myself' but, who knows, maybe one day I'll be famous enough to delight 1,550 followers by commenting on the smell of the Cornish pasty outlet at Euston station as I pass through on my way back up north? Meanwhile, I'll  curl up with 'The Casual Vacancy' and try and have a chilled out weekend.



Dancing with Myself

Autumn comes early

Autumn comes early this year. The wash out of a summer ended with a few warm and sunny days and now, all of a sudden, warmer clothes are in order. Flashes of brown and red have appeared in the trees and stray leaves begin to fall.

The birds are back, despite the influx of cats of which there are five in all.  Greenfinches, blue tits, great tits, goldfinches, coal tits and great tits join the blackbirds, the dunnocks and the robin.

On the home front, I bought a new fridge and a freezer and hopefully, the man who does most of our jobs will sort us out a new front door. The old one is worn and scratched and is now, basically, an embarrassment.