Winter in New York

I see from fellow blogger "Hamptons Ramblings" that there was 3 inches of snow in his driveway this morning. In cases like this, there's only one course of action ... He needs to call:

A bit of fun

Back in the days when computing was all about typing lengthy paragraphs of code, and marvelling that you could get a small cursor to bounce a white dot backwards and forwards across the black screen, games were far less sophisticated and sometimes a lot more fun.

ASTEROIDS was one such game, allowing you to move a small triangular spaceship around the screen, blowing up hurtling asteroids and alien flying saucers, before getting hit and disintegrating into flying shards.

Scroll down to the bottom of this Blog and you will be able to recapture those moments when you were your own Starship Captain, boldly going .....

Foggy and frosty

It's been a bit cold here over the last 36 hours, and I've even lit the open fire in the sitting room in the evenings. The church where the first service today was held was also very cold. The two calor gas heaters didn't make much impression, and my fingers were so numb that it was difficult to pick the bread off the paten at the distribution of communion. I've tried mittens, and they're no use at all. So at every opportunity I stick my hands inside the sleeves of my alb. It helps, but doesn't really warm them. Maybe it's time we brought back fur-lined albs and surplices ....

I wish I'd said that

I get my copy of the "Church Times" a couple of days late since it is kindly passed on to me by someone else, hence it is only today that I have read the 8th February issue.

Giles Fraser hits the nail square on the head in his comments about the forthcoming Lambeth Conference. I have no hesitation in putting up the link to the article and declaring that I wish I'd said it.

Film in real life

In the wonderful film "The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas", the Governor of that fine State has a great song all about letting people think he's saying something, when in reality he says absolutely nothing of any importance. One of the media reporters is asked by a colleague, "What did he say?" and gives the reply, "As usual, not a damn thing."

I feel a bit the same having read the address our Archbishop gave to today's meeting of the General Synod. (The full text can be read at -Mad Priest's blog ) I see the words, but I don't understand them. Another blogger has asked if the Archbishop is incapable of talking straight to the point, or if he always has to go round the houses? I think the answer is that he doesn't understand any other way of presenting his position or arguement. As an academic he uses the academic process. What we need is a pastor who speaks in the terminology and phraseology of the common people. Then we might be able to follow the thinking. As it stands, I switch off, and if I can't be bothered to struggle with this, what hope have others who have had no theological training? (That sounds a bit patronising, as if I, as a cleric, am better able, or should be better able to follow theological thought. I don't think that at all, but too often clergy fall into the trap of speaking and preaching in styles that just do not connect with the person in the pew.)

The Fall of the Empire

Just after my ordination as a Deacon, the Canon in charge of our "potty training" (POT = Post-ordination training) said to us that whilst following our call to ministry had meant sacrifices, we were assured of a "job for life" in the Church of England. Some 11 years later I found myself between posts and signing-on as unemployed for 6 weeks. The Benefits Office didn't have a "vicar" classification on their books, and I had to be put down as a "Methodist minister". But apart from this minor hiccup in employment, at least the Church appeared to be steady and continuing.

Now I look around and hardly recognise the church that nurtured my faith and vocation. The breadth and openness of the Anglican Church has all but disappeared as views are polarised and lines drawn. We have schism in the Episcopal Church of the United States as a couple of "traditional" bishops attempt to take their Dioceses and property out of ECUSA and into the Diocese of the Southern Cone. We have hard-line pronouncements coming from African Archbishops, and a meeting of "traditionalist" Bishops (GAFCON) in Jerusalem just before the Lambeth Conference this summer.

Making today's news is the Hereford Diocese being found guilty of sexual-orientation discrimination and facing a pay-out of £47k to the person affected, and an Archbishop who seems more concerned with making overtures to the Muslim faith rather than dealing with the blatant discrimination against women and gay Christians in his own church.

I sometimes wonder what I'm doing in the midst of all this.

And then I remember.

I am a servant of the Servant. That's my role and purpose. And for the present I am called to exercise that ministry in these rural parishes and their people.

Many years ago, as a child, I went to the cinema to see the film "The Fall of the Roman Empire". I was very interested in all things Roman then, and thought how exciting it must have been to live in the age when the known world was beginning to disintegrate.

I now know what it's like.

Chinese New Year

Fasting

Maybe it's a reaction to Ash Wednesday and the thought of 40 days of Lent, but today I've chomped two of these -
(well, they are 92% fat free!)


and two of these
(which aren't!)

mmmmmm .... chocolate egg ...... *drool*

Browsing

This morning I installed Internet Explorer 7, and so far ....

... but being Microsoft, something's bound to fall-over eventually. What with Tabs, buttons in different places, and a new graphics interface, my Lent is going to be a time of learning!

Just a wafer-thin mint?

Shrove Tuesday, and I've just eaten 6 pancakes, five with Golden Syrup and one with sugar and lemon ....

... God, I'm stuffed ....

*burp*

Get the hose and the cleaning lady ...

Service Pack 2

The last time I tried to install Microsoft Service Pack 2 on my computer, almost two years ago, it screwed up my Internet connection, so I removed it. I have held off re-installing it until this evening when I thought I'd give it another shot. So far, so good. I can still connect, as evidenced by this Post, and all seems to be working well. Now I shall try to update my Internet Explorer from version 6 to 7 with its added security measures.

It's a bit like my Sunday routine with a 9.45 a.m. service followed by an 11.15 a.m. one. By the time the first is over and I'm driving off to the second venue, I wonder if I will get it right this time, or if my sermon delivery will be better, or if I will manage to concentrate all the way through the Eucharistic Prayer without my mind wandering off to building problems, deaths of parishioners, upcoming meetings, faculty applications and the like.

If I could upload a mental Service Pack 2 that kept me fresh and aware that for those subjected to my second "performance" this is their first/one and only act of worship on this day, it might be better for all concerned.

But then the whole system might crash ......

Candlemas

On the Feast of the Purification, a candle is lit in thanks for calmer weather.

Batten the hatches!

We're in for a rough couple of days, and already the wind is rising and the rain coming down .... the M6 has lorries blown all over the place, bridges are closed, and snow is on the way.

Wheeeeeee !

... an sae the Lord be thankit

*burp*

Conversion of St Paul? Not likely!

Not with a Scottish maternal grandmother! For me, January 25th is Burn's Night! The haggis, swede and potatoes are sitting on the kitchen worksurface, the malt whisky is opened, the Scottish music CD's are stacked next to the player, and I shall dig out my tartan tie (MacDowall) from the wardrobe. However, I shall not submit any guests to the sight of my knees and a kilt! My dirk will also remain hidden ....

Robert Burns: Ode to a Haggis (1786)

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!
Aboon them a' yet tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o'a grace
As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin was help to mend a mill
In time o'need,
While thro' your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An' cut you up wi' ready sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin', rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an' strive:
Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
Bethankit! hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad make her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckles as wither'd rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash;
His nieve a nit;
Thro' blody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread.
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll mak it whissle;
An' legs an' arms, an' hands will sned,
Like taps o' trissle.

Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer
Gie her a haggis!

Wonderful weather

Although the weather today has been anything but wonderful for those where flooding of their homes and/or livelihoods is a real possibility, it's been the sort of day that I love being indoors and looking out upon. It's been a "desk day", compiling next month's Benefice magazine, and even now at 11.30 p.m. it's still not finished. However, I'll get it in tomorrow's post so the printer's will have it Monday morning. And as the wind howled and the rain pattered against the window, I gazed out and just enjoyed it.

It has to have something to do with being brought up in Brighton, and the gales that would sweep in there and funnel up the narrow streets. On some really wild nights, when it was high tide, I would borrow my father's car and drive over to Rottingdean where the waves would be breaking over the promenade and heavy spray drifting across the crossroads. I would drive down to the end of the sea road and sit and watch the waters crash and thunder, windscreen wipers on, sluicing away the spume and seaweed that was being thrown up. I always made sure I washed down the car the next day, otherwise the salt would eat through the paintwork. But I really miss waking up on a stormy south-coast morning and hearing the seagulls crying overhead, and opening the front window of my small flat and tasting the salt in my lips. Whenever there's a stormy day, or I go to bed with the wind whistling in the eaves, Brighton comes to mind.

But for today, working at the computer, the light burning steady in the window against the rough and tumble outside was a sign of calm and hope and sanctuary. And somehow it felt right.

Funeral Tribute

Funeral Tribute. All Saints Parish Church. Old Heathfield. 11.01.08

Some time back Mother was given a “Grandmother’s Album” to complete. On the page headed, “Our Children Growing up”, there’s a sub-heading, “Their special talents and interests.” Of Roger she notes: “Musical and bookish.” Peter’s skills were “sporting and cooking”. For me she says: “Richard, no particular talent …. while little …. but good at organising later.” And then in a different pen she has added, “In fact, his talents developed much later.” Thank you, Mother. I think it’s a compliment, but I’m not sure. The old adage says that it’s the idiot of the family who enters the church.

Now Mother wouldn’t have found that particularly amusing. Not that she didn’t have a sense of humour, but it was very different from that shared by my father and brothers. People say that she “suffered terribly” from the all-male household, and it’s true that we never laughed much together. She would sometimes sit silent at the table whilst the rest of us chuckled merrily, perhaps over the dense moist and leaden brown bread that she went through a phase of making, or a comment that had been made by one of us. She would look at us with a pained expression and say, “I don’t see what’s so funny,” and she truly didn’t. However, she had the ability to laugh at herself. She would come back from a morning at the Oxfam shop and talk about what some “old lady” had done, and then catch herself, chuckle and say, “I suppose I’m one of those old ladies now!” Perhaps on the outside, Mother, but not inside.

Maybe the difficulties she experienced in her childhood help to explain her rather serious nature. Born in London’s East Finchley on 2nd June 1913, one of her earliest memories was of seeing a German zeppelin caught in the searchlights as it bombed the city during the First World War. Her father, a policeman, used to call in on the home when he was on night-duty to check that the family was alright. She was only 5 years old when her mother died, a victim of the great 1918 flu pandemic, and according to the way things were done then, her father arranged for Evelyn, and her younger brother and sister, Eric and Isobel, to be taken care of by friends and relatives. Evelyn was sent off to Ireland, and lived with her Uncle Owen and Aunt Alice at Dunsany for the next three and a half years. Uncle Owen was butler to Lord Dunsany, and the whole household would spend each summer in London. On one of these trips she was taken by Aunt Alice for tea with a friend of hers who worked as a housekeeper in Buckingham Palace, and mother could recall standing at a landing window in the Palace and watching the Changing of the Guard.

Having being home-taught by her Uncle and Aunt, it was somewhat unsettling when she came back to live with her father, step-mother and half-sister, Margaret, to find that she was expected to go to school. Here she had some catching up to do, and whilst never very good at arithmetic, she enjoyed reading and writing, and she gained a very good knowledge of English which allowed her to enjoy crosswords and word games right up to about a year or so ago. Being a self-confessed “rather plump little girl”, games and PE were not her favourite activity, and her self-confidence was crushed when an insensitive dance Mistress shook her and called her a “great fat thing” in front of the whole class. This created an unsureness in her own abilities which stayed with her, and some years back she said to me that when she got her job as Secretary to Kingscliffe School, later part of Brighton College, she didn’t think she’d be any good at it. She turned out to be the most efficient administrator that school Office had seen. She also remained conscious about her weight throughout her life, hence the baking of her distinctive brown bread that has seared itself into my memory. I refused to eat it, but Dad would stoically work his way through a slice every tea-time before turning his attention to whatever cake she had made that week, at which she was far, far better. Her whole life Mother watched what she ate, but in these last years she clearly gave up worrying about it – which was obvious to anyone who shared a meal with her. Despite her failing physical abilities, she would order a starter, wolf down a huge main course, and then ask for a dessert, washing it all down with several glasses of red wine.

Leaving school, Mother held a series of secretarial jobs with Gaumont-British in Newman Street, and Provincial Cinematograph Theatres in Lower Regent Street, and lastly for Warner Brothers in Wardour Street. At the instigation of her step-mother, she was pushed into nursing, and she began her full-time training at the Middlesex Hospital in 1932. She passed her State finals in 1935 and was soon a Theatre Staff Nurse, work which she thoroughly enjoyed. Moving into private nursing in 1938 she came to Burwash to nurse Rudyard Kipling’s widow, Carrie. She initially found life at Batemans quite isolated, but grew to like it, getting on well with Mrs. Kipling, and becoming a life-long friend with Kipling’s secretary, Miss. Nicholson. All her memories of this time she recorded for the National Trust archives, and each time she re-visited the house she would delight in pointing out pieces of furniture that were in the wrong room, or that they had described one area incorrectly.

She met Michael as a result of a blind-date organised by her sister Isobel’s boy-friend, Gordon, and in May 1939 they celebrated a double church wedding. Our father was in the RAF and overseas for much of the war, so Mother had to initially bring up their firstborn by herself. It’s a wonder Roger survived, for one day she took him out in his pram along Brighton sea-front whilst there was a dog-fight overhead, and it was as shrapnel rained down around them that an Air-raid Warden suggested she took him home. The stories and anecdotes of what she did with the rest of her family, Peter and myself, will have to wait for another occasion.

There’s not enough time to speak of her Brighton years and her many church activities with St. George’s; of her 21 years of voluntary work at Oxfam here in Heathfield; of her trips abroad, to Europe with Michael and boys from Brighton College; her holiday in Malta, and then, after she was widowed and in her 80’s, her two trips to Australia and a week in Bruges. Up until her 90th birthday she remained bright and fairly active, but after that her physical strength took a steady downward turn. Leaving this area four years ago was a wrench, but she knew and accepted the reasons for it. She remained interested in what went on at this church where she had found much friendship over the years, and she wanted to return here at the end. She left us a written record of her life-story, and that and subsequent diaries contain so much of what and who she was. I’ll end with her entry for New Year’s Eve 1999. “And so to the Year 2000 which I really wanted to be able to celebrate, and here I am. Success!”

The Year of Our Lord 2008

Mother's photograph

Actually, my mother would have hated that photo. In fact, I never knew her to be pleased with any photo of herself. I'm similar to her in that respect. I think I could count on the fingers of one hand the photos of myself that I like. But then, we never see ourselves as others do. As Robert Burns wrote:
"O wad some Power the gift tae gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!"

The outward persona bears little resemblance to the inner person, that part of us which is truly ourselves. Physically, we're not the same person were were a week ago, let alone 90 or so years. The skin has sloughed off and been renewed. Bones bend, joints creak, we're less agile that we were, less able to remember, less resistant to illness. Yet inside, the me that is me is daily striving to develop, to learn, to expand, to accept newness and change. That's why, at 94, my mother was looking forward to attending computer classes in her new housing complex, so that she could use her computer "properly." As it was, until 6 months or so ago, she was quite able to send e-mails, though she didn't have full control over punctuation, capital letters or the italic key, which made some of her mails a bit of a challenge to read.

As with every death, part of the past disappears from living memory into history. I am amazed that one of her earliest memories was of seeing a German Zeppelin bomb London during the First World War. For me, that image is restricted to a flickering and jerky black & white movie. For her it was in full colour and surround sound. That world has long since gone, and now it is one more step removed.


So we have the practicalities of farewell and disposal. Today will see arrangements being finalised, now that the various offices and departments are once again open prior to another day off for New Year. We will be taking her back to Heathfield in East Sussex where she lived very happily for almost 20 years, and to a service in the old parish church. Then the "wake" will be held in nearby Burwash, in the "Kipling Room" at "The Bear". An appropriate closing of the circle, for it was in the 1930's that she nursed Rudyard Kipling's widow, Carrie, at their Burwash home, "Batemans". I think she would have been (will be?) pleased.

Mother

Evelyn F Thornburgh
2 June 1913 - 29 December 2007

Mother always said that she didn't take a good photograph, but this seems to capture her quite well - taken last month just after she had moved into her new apartment. (And yes, she used the computer in the background, not only to play Solitaire but also to send e-mails!)

She died early this morning after a short illness, aged 94.

Support us, O Lord, all the day long of this troublous life, until the shadows lengthen and the evening comes, the busy world is hushed, the fever of life is over and our work is done. Then, Lord, in your mercy grant us a safe lodging, a holy rest, and peace at the last: through Jesus Christ our Lord.

Holy Innocents

The power of this image lies in the portrayal of the event in the midst of everyday life. And still it happens .... Iraq ... Afghanistan ... Pakistan ...

On the Feast of Stephen

I must gather my winter fu-el from the coal bunker so that I can light the fire again tonight. Nothing better than sitting in front of an open fire with mulled wine to one side as the night grows darker and the wind blows stronger.

Happy Christmas !

T'was the night before ....

Well, it's up, and it's a big one!

I visited our local Garden Centre in Bungay on Thursday to purchase my tree, only to find that all they had left were three that were lying dumped at the edge of the car park and looking very scruffy. And so a trip further afield was called for, and I travelled 10 miles up towards Norwich to another Centre that lies hidden off the main road. Here there were trees a-plenty, and I choose this wonderful specimin. Perfectly balanced all round, it was just slightly tall, so having got it home I had to chop off the four bottom branches to fit it into its stand, and then take about 8 inches off the top so that my glass "spike" topper would fit. And so it stands in the hall, with two sets of lights and old and new decorations, some I knew as a child, and others I have bought over the years.

This is what tree decorations should do - evoke memories. I can recall unpacking some of them with my mother many (many) years ago. Others came from a friend who was throwing them out. I haven't seen him for 25 years now, but handling the small glass baubles makes me think of the times we spent together. Newer ornaments have been bought in Belgium, and they make me recall the scents, sights and sounds of Brugge in December, with its Christmas market and "warme wijn" stalls. (I still have three boxes of chocolates from my favourite - a cheap - little shop in Brugge that I am keeping for the 12 days of Christmas - as well as a 12-inch chocolate "Black Peter" who is St. Nicholas's helper in Flanders).

So, with two Carol services down and three to go, 2 "normal" Sunday services for Advent 4, and then a Midnight Mass and Christmas morning Eucharist, it's all beginning to gather pace. Sermons are written, and organists primed. And now I've just discovered that I've run out of my home-made marmalade. I shall have to make some this afternoon!

Gaudete Sunday

What other song could be posted on this Sunday ....?

Scribblings from the south

Away from the parishes for 24 hours for a pre-Christmas visit to see friends in Sussex, and exchange cards and presents. I enjoyed my first Christmas meal, turkey with all the trimmings, a flaming pudding, as well as nibbles and a fresh berry roulade. I feel as if I've eaten an elephant!

It's always good to see this group, most of whom I've known from 1971 when that Christmas vacation from Teacher Training College I started working at a small independant corner off-licence, "Munnery's Wine Stores". The shop changed hands (and rapidly closed) in the late 1980's, but friendships made have been friendships maintained, and we meet up a couple of times a year, mainly to celebrate birthdays, and eat ... and drink ... though as I was the driver, I was on fruit juice today.

When I was working in the shop, I could drink several Bacardi & coke in an evening without any problem. Now, just one is enough. Alcohol tolerance certainly lowers when you don't drink all that often. Two bottles of beer from our local St. Peter's Brewery, and I'm glad that I live within walking distance! Mind you, it is good stuff!

Back to Suffolk tomorrow, collecting, on the way, another friend who is staying until the weekend. Then there's the Benefice Shared Supper on Friday night (which I am hosting) at which you never know how many people are going to turn up, nor what dish (savoury or sweet) they might bring. Then two house guests for Saturday and Sunday night. It's a busy social week, on top of all the usual parish meetings (two PCC's and a clergy Chapter) and Sunday services. Then the Carol services begin! Add to this the fact that we've just learnt that the tower of one of our ancient churches is falling down, and it's going to be a busy Christmas. Joy to the World!

Invisible bluebirds

The small picture is so small that the white cliffs are invisible.

Here's a larger upload.

No longer retreating but advancing

My pre-Christmas retreat at the English Convent in Brugge was as restful as ever.


Even the Channel crossing was a lot less rough than expected. There was a super view of the receding White Cliffs of Dover as the ferry headed out for Dunkirk last Monday morning.


The Convent has a wonderfully calming atmosphere, from the sounds of distant footsteps down the corridors, to the shutting of a door or the clinking of plates in the kitchen, all carry with them the sound of a holy silence.


Life there is governed by bells. The waking bell clanking from the small bell tower at 7.00 a.m., and then the Angelus about 15 minutes later. Across the city come the echoes of other bells, monastic and secular, striking the hours and quarters, calling to worship, announcing the Mass.

The city was wet and windy this year, but still I enjoyed getting around, walking the streets, shopping for gifts and chocolates, revivingyself with a Hoegarden wheat beer or coffee, and visiting one of the Art Museums and its superb collection of Old Masters. And the Christmas lights as darkness fell made it all the more magical.

Pre-Christmas shopping

Norwich was heaving yesterday. Tuesday's are usually fairly quiet, but the city was busy busy busy with people clearly starting their seasonal purchasing. The first indication that the hordes had arrived were the "FULL" signs against the usual carparks. The only choice left was the new Chapelfield Shopping Centre carpark, which is not the cheapest in town, hence there were several hundred spaces. And then out into the streets, threading through the throng, clutching my list and enjoyuing the bustle and the crisp cool air.

It's a good city to go to. It's also the closest from where I live. Ipswich is about an hour, and it's rather vile. Bury St Edmunds is 45 minutes (on a good day and no sugar-beet lorries), but is rather limited, whereas Norwich is only 35-40 minutes and has an excellent variety.

"Cafe Rouge" is always a good lunch stop, as is "Togos" sandwich bar, but yesterday it was "Waggamama" and a bowl of chicken and pork soup with noodles, spinach leaves, and a sliced chargrilled chicken breast. A warming meal just right as the sun dipped and the temperature started to drop.


Next week though I'm off to the English Convent in Brugge for my pre-Christmas retreat. A couple of years ago that first week in December was SO cold there that the canals froze over and I spent the afternoons moving from one cafe to the next and being warmed with a mulled wine. Now that's what I call a Retreat!

Desert Island Films (1)

If I was castaway on a desert island and could take 10 films with me, which ones would they be?

Well, there's have to be this one .... I can watch it time and again.



The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas

It's going to have to be one of our study films for Lent 2008!

Rising above it all

When you think the whole world's against you, and you've got problems, take a look at these two. They've risen above their disability and made something beautiful.



(Thanks to Pat who sent me this link)

More images

More images of yesterday's high water surge from the local BBC Gallery.

High waves at Lowestoft



The Butt & Oyster at Pin Mill - anyone fancy salt & vinegar crisps?


Dunwich church

By a hair's-breadth

If the water had been but 8 inches higher our coastline would not have escaped the predicted flooding. As it was, it got damp in various places.

High-tide wave at Lowestoft



Flooding along the river Waveney at Beccles



Pictures are from the Local BBC website

High tide

I had my windows cleaned today, for the first time in six years. That's not to say they haven't been cleaned in all that time, but this was the first time I've paid someone to do them properly. That was this morning. This afternoon it rained - in torrents! The back patio was awash, but the cleared drainage channel worked well. The big new water butt caught a good amount, and it was a real autumnal afternoon, with a fresh wind blowing down from the north.

However, with a Force 8 gale blowing down the North Sea all day coinciding with two very high tides along the East Anglian coast, and there are 6 Flood Warnings in place and numerous other Flood Watches for our area.


There are also several Flood Watches in place for the Waveney river. It's not unusual for our local river to burst its banks in winter. The wide "flood plain" meadows do their job excellently, and the bridge at Homersfield is always a good indication of how high the flood waters are. (Trivia: This was the first concrete bridge in the UK, built mid 19th century).


It doesn't look good for Great Yarmouth and Lowestoft tonight - the peak of the 6ft surge due at around 7.00 a.m. We'll see what the morning brings!

Remember, Remember ...

The annual remembrance of the campaign against, as the Service of Thanksgiving for Deliverance from the Gunpowder Plot puts it ... "the Bishop of Rome and all his detestable enormities".

My... that's a big one!

Local brew

I don't often go there - in fact I haven't been there since the start of August, but St. Peter's Brewery was the destination Saturday lunchtime. I stuck to one brew, the Suffolk Gold (2.9 abv), whilst my companion had the Winter Ale (4.6 abv). After two bottles each it was time to walk home - just a mile down the road .....
it wash a lubberly strowl ..... no wind (*farp*) and clear air ... and once back, the armchairs were deep and soft .... (*hic*)

A gentleman's Gentleman

There are times when I could do with a decent butler .....

He didn't arrive again!

Last night, and the Feast of the Great Pumpkin, and I waited eagerly for him to arrive with goodies and sweets, but not a sign. And I even put out this carved image to welcome him.

*sigh*