Yippee

Aylesbury is a town celebrating.

First, we had the jubilee, with all the street parties, towncentre entertainments, concerts  and flags and bunting everywhere.
OK it rained some of the time, (well, most of the time), but it didn't dampen peoples' spirits.

Then we had the Roald Dahl festival.  Yes it poured, torrents in fact, but what the heck, we all enjoyed ourselves to  some degree.

Then on Monday we had the Olympic Torch through the centre of the town, more bunting, different flags, more excited kids, and yes,more rain.

Today I've been putting away the first lot of bunting at St. M's, and  nice and dusty it was too.

We now have the Olympic rings on all the flags in the church, along with tiny flags of all nations, so that when the games start we can be seen to be supporting our national sportsmen and women.

If we win the odd gold, silver or bronze (and of course we will), that will be the cause for more celebration.

It will of course, be accompanied by this seasons special offer, more rain.

Like every other person in this town - and probably in the country - I am tired of getting wet, sick of the dark grey skies, fed up of hearing thunder and seeing lightning but that doesn't mean there is  no cause for celebration, after all, though we have had no spring and are having no summer, we may, just may, have a decent autumn.

Roll on Christmas and perhaps we can find something to celebrate.

Happiness is....

Having spent four and a half hours today (10.30 till 3.oopm) at St M's in charge of a lucky dip tub as part of the annual Roald Dahl festival in Aylesbury, I was glad to be home at 3.30.

It was,  despite absolutely appalling weather, a noisy happy very well attended event, though I doubt it brought in much revenue.

The kids (toddlers to 90 year olds) all did their bit, the floats were, as always magnificent, if damp.  The music varied and well performed.

The bits of it we saw (start of the procession end of the procession) were well worth the effort of turning out on a really foul day.

The kitchen and refectory were run off their feet, and even the (under canvas) BBQ had plenty of customers, and the stalls within St.M's did fairly brisk business.

Nevertheless, from my point of view, three o'clock was a long time coming.

Cold wet and hungry, I fed my face, changed my garb and relaxed in front of the box, not expecting much (it being Saturday).

What did I get?   Pure bliss.

I know you will be shaking your intellectual heads sadly and muttering "poor old bat, she really is losing it", but, I watched "Garfield, a tail of two kitties" followed by England/Australia one-day cricket highlights.
Preceded by an interview with my favourite cricketer, Paul Collingwood,  We, that is, England wiped the floor with the opposition.  The ninth one-day victory in a run.

It just doesn't get any better.

Oh yes it does.

Next I shall watch Casualty and after that what is left of Henry 1V part 1.  With, wait for it, Jeremy Irons!

It is entirely possible I may never recover.

When to call it a day

Recently it has been brought home to me rather sharply that I am not as young as I am in my head.

In my mind I'm 35, but just now and then a wake-up call has reminded me that bodies wear out (yes, even mine).

It became necessary to give up cleaning the brass every week in St. M's, just too exhausting.

Then the crazy weather this year has caused my 'jungle' to grow like the beanstalk and it seemed sensible to get some help in getting it under control.

A few days ago I asked one of my friendly neighbours to show me how to  order some of my household shopping online.

None of these were things I had been prepared to even contemplate a year ago, but there is no sense in clinging desperately to doing everything without help.  Admitting to advancing years is the first step, the second is to decide which chores to hand to someone else and be kind to yourself.

Since  falling over my neighbour's cat and banging my head, I have realised that slowing down, however reluctantly, and taking time instead of moving at the speed of light probably makes more sense.

Accepting the need to let some things go and not to cling desperately to a way of life which is unsustainable does not mean a lowering of standards, just points to the need to look for changing priorities.

I have just finished watching the BBC1 programme on Getting Older, where four well known figures each spent 2 or 3 days in a care home.

Though each of them was able to leave at the end of that time and those they had spent time with could not, it was good for each and every one of them to experience at first hand the drastically restricted lives of the inhabitants of the four very different homes.

The thought of having to end my days in any such place has always been, and still is, my worst nightmare, yet for many people it is the only possible way.

John Simpson was in a Star and Garter home where many of the 'guests' were in an advanced stage of dementia.

Tony Robinson, Lesley Joseph and Gloria Hunniford all had experiences which, however good (or less good) the home, left them quite shaken and disturbed.

One thing which stood out a mile was that, without exception, every single person in each of the homes, would rather have been in their own homes.

The loss of freedom.  The enforced communal aspect of life.  The physical decline and also mental decline partly due to lack of stimulation, and the routine with no variation was mind-numbingly obvious.

And for me, one of my pet hates, and one which is a staple of such places, the manner of address, with remarks like "we are not feeling so bright today", however kindly meant, is patronising in the extreme and would elicit a somewhat rude reply if addressed to me.

I think I would go along with John Simpson's early comment, before his experience, that he would rather take a pill than go into a care home.

It was a well-made and well presented programme, but a chilling reminder of what might lie in wait for those of us without family as we get older.

Get off my line

The genteel image on the left has nothing whatever to do with my current state of mind, temper, attitude.

I am being bombarded with calls from a company which calls itself UK Today.

The opening gambit goes "Hello, is this Mrs Barn ez?" When I growl Barnes, they say, "How are you today"?  I reply "what do you want, what are you selling?" and "Who are you?"

Reply "We just would like to ask you a few questions it will only take  a few minutes"

When I repeat "who are you"? they reply I am calling from UK Today."  When I ask who is UK Today, where are you based"" they hang up.

This has been going on for several days, always  at the same time - around 2.30pm and then again at around 6.00 pm.

A few weeks ago I passed on some advice to a blogger who was complaining of a similar caller, this was, to answer politely then when they begin their spiel simply put down the phone on a flat surface and walk away.

So far, I haven't taken my own advice, but tomorrow I will.

And yes, before anyone asks, I have signed up to  the preference service - it doesn't work!

Many are called

There is much comment around the blogs today about Petertide and the fact that it is the time when many/most Anglican clergy are ordained.

Not something I know much about, but of interest because I am intrigued by the whole process.

During the two years and three months since I was baptised and confirmed I have had many opportunities to see those who have been ordained as priests and a few who were still en route, and it never fails to amaze me to see just how diverse and different they are in their approach.

From my very anti-religious upbringing (well covered in previous posts), and with a life-long scepticism, not to say cynicism of all things pertaining to Christianity, it has surprised and occasionally shocked me to find that many, if not most, of those caught up in the 'business' of religion have an absolute certainty that they were not only 'called' but always intended for this path.

Seeing quite a few ministers of various complexions of Christianity in action, that is, in church and in the wider community, it has been fascinating to find that despite the very different routes to their chosen way of life, they all appear to have a fundamental, rock-solid, belief in what they are doing.

Because it has been my chosen method of filling some of my time to 'hang around' occasionally to work, in a parish office, I have been privileged to observe at rather closer quarters than many, the sheer volume of hard, unrelenting demands on the time and energy of the clergy, which make up the daily work-load of these often criticised and verbally abused individuals.

There appears to be no 'cut-off' point where it is possible to say "I'm not on duty", and even the one-day a week off is hard come by, and occasionally sacrificed in response to a particular appeal.

Not only those who wear the 'dog-collar', but their families pay a considerable price for the privilege of being a parish priest.

I wonder how many of those about to be ordained have any real idea of what lies ahead, and just what it means to answer the call.

Whoever and wherever they be, my thoughts and prayers are with them.

A Catastrophe of Cats.

If there was a collective noun for cats, in my life it would have to be "a catastrophe of cats".

Not because I dislike cats, as some of you may have noticed, but because, like all the best things in life, they come with strings attached.

On Friday I was sitting at my desk minding my own business, when the post landed with a crash in the hall below.

When I bent to pick it up I noticed one large envelope stuck in the letter-box.  I tugged it and it remained stuck, so I opened the front door intending to stand on the doorstep and tug from that side.

Unfortunately, my neighbour's cat Morris was perched on the step, and trying not to step on him and to grab the envelope at the same time, I tripped, fell between the step and a large wooden tub scraped my arm and leg and banged my head on the edge of the tub as I fell.

My first shocked reaction was "thank heaven no-one is about, I must look like a drunk", quickly followed by "oh heck, I can't get up".

Eventually pushing Morris out of the way, I scrambled somehow to my feet and hobbled indoors.

I have grazed arms and right leg, and a large very pale blue bruise on my forehead, but other than a 24 hour headache no further injuries.

This is by no means the first time I have fallen over a cat in my long history, particularly in the days when I was an active member of Cats' Protection.   Trying to round up young ferals in a colony in order to get them to a vet for injections, neutering etc can be great fun, as you may imagine.

Trying to entice a really wild feral into a trap/cage in order to get it examined even more so, but this has never really stopped me from wanting to spend time and energy on improving the lives of the less fortunate members of the feline society.

My late father was also cat mad, and in their retirement my parents fed many of the neglected farm cats in the area of East Anglia which was their  home for 31 years.

The cat (click to enlarge picture), at the top of this post was one such.

A lovely semi-feral whom my father adored, named Sextus, due to his 6-toed front paws.  He was a sweet-natured and friendly cat who loved everything and everybody.  Oddly, this included a large male blackbird with whom he happily shared his food, and a roaming hen who used to sit, side-by-side with him in Dad's greenhouse.

They can be sweet, gentle soft and lazy, and the next minute vicious, predatory frenzied killers.  They can get under your feet, sit on you when you least expect it and dig their claws in to obtain a good purchase on their chosen lap.

They can be unbelievably psychic, knowing when someone is on their way to your door, though you don't.
They can be distant and remote, answering neither calls, soft chirruping sounds or any other blandishments, or if they choose, can virtually throw their paws round your neck.

A wonderful section of the animal kingdom.  A complete menace.  A loyal and loving family member.
A total mystery.

A cat.

The Longest Day

As a true Celt, (seven eighths Welsh and one eighth Cornish), I feel I ought to be celebrating the Summer Solstice.

Just how, is a problem, since I am now a baptised and confirmed Christian, (an uneasy combination).

So, rather than go out into my soggy bedraggled garden at dawn to face the sun, I slept through it and woke to yet another wet day.

The nearest 'standing stones' are some considerable distance from here and local Druids hard to find, so all-in-all probably best to keep quiet about my dodgy heritage.

My paternal grandmother was allegedly (one of the many) an illegitimate daughter of Dr Price of Llantrisant,
doctor, chartist and self-styled druid.  She was adopted by the man her mother later married and received h is name, and as was the style in those days, kept silence about her origins.  If indeed, she ever really knew them.

This is a family myth and may have no real substance, but there were signs of anti-establishment and indeed somewhat revolutionary traits in three of my father's brothers and his own communist beliefs must have sprung from somewhere, so who knows, maybe the rumours had some substance.

During the early part of  my life I was  very close to my father's parents and stayed with them for about 7 or 8 months when the war started.  My two eldest brothers stayed with my mother's parents and so grew up closer to them.

Father's parents were very much more obviously Welsh than my mother's parents and I had quite a strong attachment to my Welsh roots for many years.

Nowadays, the fact that I still sing and occasionally have a word or two with my household dragons (Ivan Llewellyn Pendragon and little Rhodri) is just about as Welsh as I feel.

Oh, and I nearly forgot, I support the Welsh rugby side in the six-nations games.

Time to leave the mystic side of life and return to cleaning the loo.  Ah well.