Title of this post to be sung to the tune of Where Have All the Flowers Gone>, that very poignant protest song of the sixties. I never knew it was an anti-Vietnam song back in those wide-eyed and innnocent days of mine of course: I just saw it as a lovely song in the same vein as In an English Country Garden. However, its lyrics ring true again now, but where are the folk singers of today to vent their anger at the torrid, horrid world our society seems to be becoming?
The news these past few days has been dominated by the fate of the latest hostages to fall victim to the sub-human extremists of the Middle East. Ken Bigley, a middle-aged Englishmanm has his life hanging in the balance with the threat of chilling execution, most likely beheading, for no other crime apparently than being the wrong nationality in the wrong place at the wrong time. Two of his fellow captives have met that fate in the last week but the mental torture being imposed on his loved ones is almost worse than the physical barbarity of his death sentence. The captors are demanding the release of two Iraqi women held in American jails, something which needless to say the US will not acceed to.
Last night saw Mr Bigley's distraught 86-year old mother, barely able to contain herself, appear before a news conference before later collapsing and needing hospital treatment (although she has at least been discharged this morning). What can possibly drive anyone to such acts of savagery, to forgive the insult to my surname? Have they never had family themselves? Can anyone be so loveless? I do hope and pray that the pleas of his family will have been seen by his captors and move them to mercy, but somehow I fear it will make little difference.
How can anyone so lose their humanity to ruthlessly kill not fellow soldiers or militia men, but disinterested civilians? Of course, the west is not blameless and our leaders have the blood of countless other civilian lives on their hands but this sort of thing just defies belief.
My feelings echo those of 'decent' people everywhere I hope. It was a theme taken up by Father Brian Darcy in a great Pause for Thought on BBC Radio 2 this morning. He called everyone of any faith to spare a prayer to their God for this hapless man and his family and it was a challenge I willingly responded to immediately. The resultant 15 minute prayer session was a blessing of stillness in an unstill world: I find it increasingly wonderful how God can provide such moments of perfect peace, or Shalom as the Bible calls it, at the most unexpected times and in unlikely ways.
As I write this, I am once again having to keep my cool against what seem to me like the excesses of my neighbours below. For the last twelve hours or so, I've heard what sounds like the same piece of music being played over and over accompanied by incessant chatter. Now it's not noisome in itself, but irritating. And yet, I know that good witness means being tolerant to this, understanding and moderate. Compared to the matters above, its a trivial annoyance. My neighbours do after all have every right to enjoy their culture in their flat during the daytime hours and I'd be laughed out of court if I attempted to complain to officialdom this time, I think. This world needs moderation, and it needs moderators. Lord, bring us back to that equilibrium, that "Shalom", which only you can give.
As I said in an earlier posting, I don't think I have known a September like it. But you have to find light relief and normality, indeed almost wallow in the mundane in such situations or else the terrorists win their victory. The little observations of life, these daily details, may not be of earth-shattering importance, but they do ensure that civilised life, whatever that is, can carry on.
It's now two-thirds of the way through the month when the 54 registration came in, but I have yet to see a new car on the road- most unusual. OK, there were eight of them on the back of a transporter the other day, but that doesn't count! Are these moveable cartons of shiny metal and rubber losing their allure? For the sake of the thousands employed in the motor industry, I certainly hope not, but maybe environmentalists would raise a cheer.
It's such a fine balance between enjoying and enduring this consumer-led planet, I find. Laws of physics ordered by the almighty actually make this world go round,not money, and yet there's no tirade against trade in the Bible, something I've perhaps been prone to forget at times. However, it does warn that the love of money is the root of all kinds of evil- though not, as is often misquoted "of all evil". I wonder how much of our present problems are really down to a misguided moneyphilia? At which point, purely by "accident", I'm sure, the weekly LICC mailing popped into the inbox, saying this:
Jesus Walks – Kanye West
Jesus is everywhere - from designer label All Saints’ silver-studded belts proclaiming ‘Jesus loves you’ to River Island’s cartoon-Christ t-shirts bearing the WWJD legend. Never before has the Son of God been so assimilated in order to push product.
It doesn’t stop there. Christ is in the cinema, Christ is in politics, and now Christ is in a pop chart near you. And no, it’s not Christmas, and Sir Cliff is nowhere to be heard. Instead, it’s the goth-shock rocker Marilyn Manson and the critically lauded US rap star Kanye West who are responsible.
Manson’s latest release, a cover of Depeche Mode’s classic ‘My Own Personal Jesus’, attacks America’s right wing , as the Republicans lay claim to divine approval in the run-up to the elections (see ‘God is not a Republican’ at www.licc.org.uk/culture/god-is-not-a-republican).
Kanye’s song ‘Jesus Walks’, however, reveals an even more radical message for contemporary America.
It is many things - an attack on racism and the divide between rich and poor, a confession (‘I want to talk to God but I’m afraid cos we ain’t spoke in so long’) and a rooted ‘gospel’ song depicting Christ’s compassion for the outcast:
‘To the hustlers, killers, murderers, drug dealers, even the strippers, Jesus walks with them. To the victims of welfare, feel we living in hell here, hell yeah, Jesus walks with them.’
But the unique prophetic edge of both the song and album (‘The College Dropout’) is West’s unflinching critique of aspects of his own Afro-American culture. He refuses to embrace the popular image of rapper-as-gangster-hero, and undermines the superficiality of the bling-bling consumer lifestyle. As his recent hit ‘All Falls Down’ decrees, ‘The prettiest people do the ugliest things/For the road to the riches and the diamond rings.’
West also calls into account the deep hypocrisy of a media culture which encourages its stars to flaunt sex and violence but never religious ideals. As he spits in ‘Jesus Walks’, ‘They said you can rap anything except for Jesus.’
Christians wishing to ‘make it’ in the music world are often wary that overt expressions of faith will make them unpopular. Perhaps the gospel according to Kanye shows that incisive social thinking accompanied by assured musicianship is one way to ensure that, directly or indirectly, Jesus gets to talk (if not walk, quite yet) with the MTV masses.
Jason Gardner
How true. God needs witnesses to his goodness. Not people who bling bling but sing sing of his great love forever. At which point, I'd love to quote the hymn based on Vaughan Williams' wonderful Fantasia on a Theme of Thomas Tallis, which was one of the hymns they had on the Daily Service pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela this morning. Trouble is, I don't know the words!
THE LONG ROAD
I might not share the spiritual background of the pilgrims venerating the professed relics of Jesus' brother, but I am certainly a pilgrim on the journey on the modern road of life. A few years ago, I had a chorus come to me on one of my prayer breaks on the beach in Portslade, East Sussex, where I was living at the time I put the words to the tune of a lovely tune by the brilliant Mark Knopfler, called
On the long road, the long road of life
Sometimes there's joy, sometimes strife
But through it all
You're still the same
You share the joy
You share the pain
Lord, I love you, yes I do
I'll follow you, follow true
Down that long road, the road of life
That long long road, the road of life.
It is a long road indeed, yet hitting the "motorway" of mortal existence in the forties, you realise how short a journey it can be so it's best to make the most of it. The early pilgrims reached their final destinations footsore and weary, but God is not averse to industrial technology aiding the journey in our age, I'm sure. However, rust will never destroy this chariot. It runs on love and its journey travelled is measured in heartbeats not milemarks. There's a 24/7 hotline to the manufacturer and an eternal lifetime warranty. With features like that, who needs the latest number on a plate?
Friday, 24 September 2004
Wednesday, 22 September 2004
"Different-abled or Dis-Abled?
BBC - Ouch! Disability Magazine - News, Paralympics, Features, Humour
I mentioned in Saturday's posting how I feel deeply affected when I see folk with Downs Syndrome. However, I was hesitating over my words even as I started to write this paragraph. How easily we label people- but should we? Every human being has so many other qualities, ability and potential beyond that which is immediately apparent to the eyes of those who take for granted the gift of all our senses including sight-and I speak as one who has not had 20/20 vision since the age of 14 and wears glasses most of the time now.
Fortunately, my "disability" is not one that merits any comment from anyone really, and I would certainly not call myself disabled in that sense. A sizeable proportion of the population have to wear spectacles at one stage or other, particularly after a certain age. So nobody would know that part of me is 64 years older than the rest as I have a donated cornea in my left eye, unless I choose to tell them(OK,I have now, haven't "eye"!)
My dear younger brother was boasting in a gentle way the other week that when he had a sight test as part of a work medical, he even read out the maker's name at the bottom of the chart! As he's only eighteen months younger than me though, I expect he'll be needing his fair share of manufactured assistance with reading the small print before long, I'm sure. It comes to us all, though our Mum seems to have managed amazingly well without glasses for close work well into these later years.
I wonder who first came up with the word "disabled"? I'll bet it was an able-bodied person, but I'll also wager they never stopped to realise that they too are actually disabled and so is everyone else in the world. Whether by accident of birth, accidental trauma or simply lacking certain skills others have, none of us have perfect abilities in all things. I'll never be a Rembrandt or a Rooney (Wayne of that ilk, wunderkind of Manchester United)so I'm dis-abled from being a great painter or football player- in the latter case as much by the arrival of middle age as the absence of Rooney's beautiful boots!
However, in God's sight, I already am perfect, because he has made me so, as indeed he has every reader of these thoughts. Every human being is made in his image, whatever their abilities or apparent lack of them. We are not written off as seconds, but restored to our full function through history's pivot, one marvellous sacrifice made not for sporting glory but for human liberation, something far more lasting. Therefore, logically and faithfully, everyone has the ability to do something far greater than their most paralysing of disabilities allow. To each individual, our creator has given unique gifts- and yet it's part of the wonderful topsy turvy grace of God that sometimes those who seem to have the least actually have the most. The first shall be last and the last shall be first is the Lord's order of play, which would make for some very interesting if confusing medal awards at Olympic or Paralympic games!
I've been thinking a lot about the marginalised members of our society tonight as I watched three wonderful BBC Two features which all in different ways addressed disabilities. I was drawn to this web page as a link from the last of them; it had one of the longest, most intriguing titles I've heard in a long time. It was called The Robinsons at Wit's End: This is my Family, and is the second in a wonderfully life-affirming series of Tuesday documentaries. Unfortunately, I missed the first half hour or so of the programme as my forty winks turned into eighty, so it was only after following the link that I learnt the full extent of the pain and sorrow this wonderful family have endured alongside all the joys of being a home of love to six beautiful children, five of whom have special needs or "learning difficulties". Sometimes politically correct labels can do more harm than good, but I think both these descriptions well serve the wonderful young individuals this programme featured.
The narrator of the programme was 13-year old Debra, the only one of the adopted Robinson children without recognised medical or social difficulties. The part of the programme I saw focussed on her entry to teenagerdom and her loving Mum's efforts to help her into the minefield of adolescence while avoiding the temptation to wrap her in cotton wool as she understandably does with the others. Yet each of the other children, particularly young Tish who is of a similar age but had endured a dreadful early childhood, all had something really special to contribute. Her insights, her trust, her unaffected words of appreciation for each of her teachers at her "ordinary" comprehensive in Honiton, Devon, all spoke volumes to me of where Jesus the Saviour, God the loving Father and the Holy Spirit can most often be seen hard at work, yet so often untrumpeted.
I don't know whether this family hold any beliefs at all but for me God was surely evident in this gem of a programme. I hope it gets an early repeat so I can see the rest of it. Isn't it interesting how the most striking parts of the gospel, and the people Jesus paid most attention to, were those who were the least able in 1st Century eyes: those who were disabled through prejudice or the ignorance of others from standing up to the neglect and pretensions of the religious hierarchy of the time.
These characters in scripture to me, were in some ways just like the Robinson children, growing up in an often cruel world which is not so very different from ancient Palestine. Their loving mother understandably fears for them, just as parents of disabled and sick children brought their loved ones to Jesus. He came to bring hope and release the true abilities of all who bore such chronic burdens, of many kinds-adults as well as children, whether those burdens were physical, mental or spiritual. He healed and helped those who were "disabled" through no fault of their own. He still comes today, but now he heals and works through us. He challenges us to see the world differently through eyes of faith. Thank heavens for that: as scripture says, "I can do all things through Christ".
This evening too challenged some of my ignorance of disability issues; maybe it's time for it be at least an optional subject on the national curriculum. For instance, after being somewhat confused by the classification system of athlete's disabilities, I came across a website which clarified something which had been puzzling me. A person can be termed a quadraplegic, even if he or she still has some use of their limbs- it all depends on which part of the spinal cord is affected. In other words, they are not necessarily paralysed, which makes the excellently-written editorial to this website, "Ouch" seem all the more relevant.
Mind you, I can't quite understand how the current games can be regarded as "parallel" when the main Olympics finished three weeks ago. Surely something which is parallel happens at the same time, as in a parallel universe? Semantics maybe, but the issue is confused enough- let's not make it more so.
At the end of the International Day of Peace (21st September) here's to a world in which even the greatest disability of all, our inability to love one another as God has loved us, can lead us to the heavenly podium of the victor.
I mentioned in Saturday's posting how I feel deeply affected when I see folk with Downs Syndrome. However, I was hesitating over my words even as I started to write this paragraph. How easily we label people- but should we? Every human being has so many other qualities, ability and potential beyond that which is immediately apparent to the eyes of those who take for granted the gift of all our senses including sight-and I speak as one who has not had 20/20 vision since the age of 14 and wears glasses most of the time now.
Fortunately, my "disability" is not one that merits any comment from anyone really, and I would certainly not call myself disabled in that sense. A sizeable proportion of the population have to wear spectacles at one stage or other, particularly after a certain age. So nobody would know that part of me is 64 years older than the rest as I have a donated cornea in my left eye, unless I choose to tell them(OK,I have now, haven't "eye"!)
My dear younger brother was boasting in a gentle way the other week that when he had a sight test as part of a work medical, he even read out the maker's name at the bottom of the chart! As he's only eighteen months younger than me though, I expect he'll be needing his fair share of manufactured assistance with reading the small print before long, I'm sure. It comes to us all, though our Mum seems to have managed amazingly well without glasses for close work well into these later years.
I wonder who first came up with the word "disabled"? I'll bet it was an able-bodied person, but I'll also wager they never stopped to realise that they too are actually disabled and so is everyone else in the world. Whether by accident of birth, accidental trauma or simply lacking certain skills others have, none of us have perfect abilities in all things. I'll never be a Rembrandt or a Rooney (Wayne of that ilk, wunderkind of Manchester United)so I'm dis-abled from being a great painter or football player- in the latter case as much by the arrival of middle age as the absence of Rooney's beautiful boots!
However, in God's sight, I already am perfect, because he has made me so, as indeed he has every reader of these thoughts. Every human being is made in his image, whatever their abilities or apparent lack of them. We are not written off as seconds, but restored to our full function through history's pivot, one marvellous sacrifice made not for sporting glory but for human liberation, something far more lasting. Therefore, logically and faithfully, everyone has the ability to do something far greater than their most paralysing of disabilities allow. To each individual, our creator has given unique gifts- and yet it's part of the wonderful topsy turvy grace of God that sometimes those who seem to have the least actually have the most. The first shall be last and the last shall be first is the Lord's order of play, which would make for some very interesting if confusing medal awards at Olympic or Paralympic games!
I've been thinking a lot about the marginalised members of our society tonight as I watched three wonderful BBC Two features which all in different ways addressed disabilities. I was drawn to this web page as a link from the last of them; it had one of the longest, most intriguing titles I've heard in a long time. It was called The Robinsons at Wit's End: This is my Family, and is the second in a wonderfully life-affirming series of Tuesday documentaries. Unfortunately, I missed the first half hour or so of the programme as my forty winks turned into eighty, so it was only after following the link that I learnt the full extent of the pain and sorrow this wonderful family have endured alongside all the joys of being a home of love to six beautiful children, five of whom have special needs or "learning difficulties". Sometimes politically correct labels can do more harm than good, but I think both these descriptions well serve the wonderful young individuals this programme featured.
The narrator of the programme was 13-year old Debra, the only one of the adopted Robinson children without recognised medical or social difficulties. The part of the programme I saw focussed on her entry to teenagerdom and her loving Mum's efforts to help her into the minefield of adolescence while avoiding the temptation to wrap her in cotton wool as she understandably does with the others. Yet each of the other children, particularly young Tish who is of a similar age but had endured a dreadful early childhood, all had something really special to contribute. Her insights, her trust, her unaffected words of appreciation for each of her teachers at her "ordinary" comprehensive in Honiton, Devon, all spoke volumes to me of where Jesus the Saviour, God the loving Father and the Holy Spirit can most often be seen hard at work, yet so often untrumpeted.
I don't know whether this family hold any beliefs at all but for me God was surely evident in this gem of a programme. I hope it gets an early repeat so I can see the rest of it. Isn't it interesting how the most striking parts of the gospel, and the people Jesus paid most attention to, were those who were the least able in 1st Century eyes: those who were disabled through prejudice or the ignorance of others from standing up to the neglect and pretensions of the religious hierarchy of the time.
These characters in scripture to me, were in some ways just like the Robinson children, growing up in an often cruel world which is not so very different from ancient Palestine. Their loving mother understandably fears for them, just as parents of disabled and sick children brought their loved ones to Jesus. He came to bring hope and release the true abilities of all who bore such chronic burdens, of many kinds-adults as well as children, whether those burdens were physical, mental or spiritual. He healed and helped those who were "disabled" through no fault of their own. He still comes today, but now he heals and works through us. He challenges us to see the world differently through eyes of faith. Thank heavens for that: as scripture says, "I can do all things through Christ".
This evening too challenged some of my ignorance of disability issues; maybe it's time for it be at least an optional subject on the national curriculum. For instance, after being somewhat confused by the classification system of athlete's disabilities, I came across a website which clarified something which had been puzzling me. A person can be termed a quadraplegic, even if he or she still has some use of their limbs- it all depends on which part of the spinal cord is affected. In other words, they are not necessarily paralysed, which makes the excellently-written editorial to this website, "Ouch" seem all the more relevant.
Mind you, I can't quite understand how the current games can be regarded as "parallel" when the main Olympics finished three weeks ago. Surely something which is parallel happens at the same time, as in a parallel universe? Semantics maybe, but the issue is confused enough- let's not make it more so.
At the end of the International Day of Peace (21st September) here's to a world in which even the greatest disability of all, our inability to love one another as God has loved us, can lead us to the heavenly podium of the victor.
Sunday, 19 September 2004
Technical problems
For reasons I can't yet fathom, yesterday all my postings seemed to move to the extreme left side of the screen and there are no margins. I'm not sure why this is, but I guess it is part of the Blogger learning curve to work out why. I'm experimenting, so just for the sake of variety will try to change the text colour on this posting too, and have changed the template. Hope to return to the "Harbor" at some stage though, as I find it rather comforting.
Quite a time for technical troubles at the moment: I'm very frustrated, having finally seemed to solve the problem with paper feed on my Canon bubble jet, to find that now it is not printing in black, and leaving out some of the colour, even though I have put in new cartridges. I really need my printing facilities right now, so if anyone has any bright ideas I'd really like to hear them- thanks and apologies. MARK
Quite a time for technical troubles at the moment: I'm very frustrated, having finally seemed to solve the problem with paper feed on my Canon bubble jet, to find that now it is not printing in black, and leaving out some of the colour, even though I have put in new cartridges. I really need my printing facilities right now, so if anyone has any bright ideas I'd really like to hear them- thanks and apologies. MARK
Saturday, 18 September 2004
Do I like to be beside the Seaside (Road) ?
Cabe Library 2
Google is an amazing tool for finding all sorts of esoteric links. This I think provides the best introduction to this afternoon's posting. I live just a minute's walk from the Seaside- both the actual watery stuff and the two roads in Eastbourne named using that word which, somewhat confusingly, do not form the seafront but run parallel to it.
Anyway (now you see where my blog title comes in- I do seem to like using this as a paragraph opener!) today is the "Seaside Road Fun Day". I'd spotted advertising for this in shop windows earlier in the week and thought I would drop by and find out what it is all about, but had actually forgotten until earlier this morning when the unusual strains of a Scottish pipe band passed my lugholes.
I was going out for my customary weekend breakfast anyway, but had forgotten to take my wallet so returned home to pick that up. As time was getting on and breakfast stops at 11.30, I also decided to go to T J Hughes rather than Littlewoods for my 8-item treat. No straitened financial circumstances or straightened waist (I wish!) is going to get me to surrender the pleasure of a Saturday sausage just yet.
Both breakfast and location proved a good choice. Fortunately, they still had plenty left of my favourite items (their eggs are brilliant and the fried bread just right) and my favourite table too. This is right by the window of the third floor "Dome" restaurant which is an excellent spot both for its sea view and 'people watching' My large cappuccino, though somewhat strong for my tastes really, lingered nicely while I saw all sorts and conditions of men and women pass by, dashing about their Saturday business, co-operating with the Co-Op or trotting through the Terminus (Road- the main street of the town intersecting at this spot). I particularly noticed three Downs Syndrome people walking across at the lights, reminding me how often I have seen God's image in such faces and that the Paralympics start today in Athens. At least there is another chance for a dose of Grecian sunshine, though to be honest I shall probably do no more than watch the highlights of the opening today.
Getting back to Eastbourne though and the Sunshine coast- living up to its name this afternoon after a gloomy start- from my vantage point, my eyes also took in lots of little features of the skyline you can so easily overlook from ground level. For instance, I'd never noticed the Domed top of the betting shop opposite TJ's, complete with very helpful weathervane and compass pointers- I can never work out which direction is which in this town!- The Dutch gabled ends of the various Edwardian residences above the shops in this area too I find fascinating. Far more typical of the East coast of England than the South-East really: I recall Hull was full of these. There's a very interesting mix of architectural styles here for those that wish to look, and a wide choice of building materials too, quite different from the flint which being so plentiful locally is often the rock of choice.
I finished my coffee just in time to get downstairs for the grand ceremonial ribbon cutting to start the ball rolling on the fun day. Apart from the pipe band standing by under the firm command of their sergeant-major, there were a couple of lovely lassies on stilts, one with fairy wings, and other costumed characters. The significance of their garb escapes me- can't quite work out what era they are from, but very colourful nonetheless.
There's also a barbecue at one of the pubs I've never been in before (dare I risk a cheeseburger and a pint later? So much for good intentions), a steel band (hey, I must hear them after my enjoyment of the Kingston Carnival last Sunday) and various other enticements to investigate the newly regenerated road. It's only just occurred to me that my former colleague Will has probably had a lot to do with this work- good on him. The traffic disruption caused initially during the partial pedestrianising and one-way working of the area proved controversial, but it looks like the traders are determined to make the best of it and I wish them well.
While some of the shops on this road are a bit out of my age bracket these days, like the Blast! clothing store, when funds permit who knows I may even look in the leather shop. I've often thought about having a leather jacket, though can't help thinking of the rather nasty PVC imitation I once wore during the seventies.
However, the shop I shall return to most often without a doubt is the always helpful Christian Resource Centre. Though I've always thought the name a bit dull, it's a brilliant shop where I sometimes have to control my impulse to buy yet more Christian books and magazines. However, the staff and particularly the manager Kevin are always friendly and helpful and a credit to the Christian book trade. Even their vended cappuccino is not bad!
Seaside Road's other brilliant curiosity is The Musgrave Collection the brainchild of one local man, incredibly now in his eighties though looking at least ten years younger than that. A fascinating place. I visited it for this first time a while ago. When, I can't quite remember. Oh, I think it was some time in April though it seems longer. It's dedicated to the life of St Paul, with many beautifully crafted pictures illustrating this together with portraits, models and assorted artefacts on all sorts of aspects of social history- just my sort of place. More info. at http://www.ask.co.uk/ix.asp?q=Musgrave+Collection&ac=none&xx=0&qid=C8EBC5C9E4A20F49941E6968BE63A32C&p=0&s=999&sp=ix&fn=t&b=0&fo=2&r=10&io=1&fp=1&fr=1&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww%2Evisiteastbourne%2Ecom%2Findoor%5Fattractions%2Fmusgrave%2Ehtm&adurl=
I will certainly pay another visit to the attractions of this eclectic mix of shops and services later- it's so convenient. I see that there is even a Learn Direct centre in the internet cafe, which could prove useful for training at the moment. If nothing else, it will cheer me up on a day which started with me feeling in a very down mood, though I am pleased to say the worst of that has now passed. Do I like to be beside the Seaside? Well, my failure to get an interview for the BBC job means that I will probably be by it for a bit longer yet. On balance, despite the occasional calls on my time and energy elsewhere, it's a nice place to be.
Just in case you've wondered, by the way, this is not advertorial but my own unbiased impressions of the local shopping scene. Mind you, it's an interesting idea. Maybe I ought to investigate Adsense!
Google is an amazing tool for finding all sorts of esoteric links. This I think provides the best introduction to this afternoon's posting. I live just a minute's walk from the Seaside- both the actual watery stuff and the two roads in Eastbourne named using that word which, somewhat confusingly, do not form the seafront but run parallel to it.
Anyway (now you see where my blog title comes in- I do seem to like using this as a paragraph opener!) today is the "Seaside Road Fun Day". I'd spotted advertising for this in shop windows earlier in the week and thought I would drop by and find out what it is all about, but had actually forgotten until earlier this morning when the unusual strains of a Scottish pipe band passed my lugholes.
I was going out for my customary weekend breakfast anyway, but had forgotten to take my wallet so returned home to pick that up. As time was getting on and breakfast stops at 11.30, I also decided to go to T J Hughes rather than Littlewoods for my 8-item treat. No straitened financial circumstances or straightened waist (I wish!) is going to get me to surrender the pleasure of a Saturday sausage just yet.
Both breakfast and location proved a good choice. Fortunately, they still had plenty left of my favourite items (their eggs are brilliant and the fried bread just right) and my favourite table too. This is right by the window of the third floor "Dome" restaurant which is an excellent spot both for its sea view and 'people watching' My large cappuccino, though somewhat strong for my tastes really, lingered nicely while I saw all sorts and conditions of men and women pass by, dashing about their Saturday business, co-operating with the Co-Op or trotting through the Terminus (Road- the main street of the town intersecting at this spot). I particularly noticed three Downs Syndrome people walking across at the lights, reminding me how often I have seen God's image in such faces and that the Paralympics start today in Athens. At least there is another chance for a dose of Grecian sunshine, though to be honest I shall probably do no more than watch the highlights of the opening today.
Getting back to Eastbourne though and the Sunshine coast- living up to its name this afternoon after a gloomy start- from my vantage point, my eyes also took in lots of little features of the skyline you can so easily overlook from ground level. For instance, I'd never noticed the Domed top of the betting shop opposite TJ's, complete with very helpful weathervane and compass pointers- I can never work out which direction is which in this town!- The Dutch gabled ends of the various Edwardian residences above the shops in this area too I find fascinating. Far more typical of the East coast of England than the South-East really: I recall Hull was full of these. There's a very interesting mix of architectural styles here for those that wish to look, and a wide choice of building materials too, quite different from the flint which being so plentiful locally is often the rock of choice.
I finished my coffee just in time to get downstairs for the grand ceremonial ribbon cutting to start the ball rolling on the fun day. Apart from the pipe band standing by under the firm command of their sergeant-major, there were a couple of lovely lassies on stilts, one with fairy wings, and other costumed characters. The significance of their garb escapes me- can't quite work out what era they are from, but very colourful nonetheless.
There's also a barbecue at one of the pubs I've never been in before (dare I risk a cheeseburger and a pint later? So much for good intentions), a steel band (hey, I must hear them after my enjoyment of the Kingston Carnival last Sunday) and various other enticements to investigate the newly regenerated road. It's only just occurred to me that my former colleague Will has probably had a lot to do with this work- good on him. The traffic disruption caused initially during the partial pedestrianising and one-way working of the area proved controversial, but it looks like the traders are determined to make the best of it and I wish them well.
While some of the shops on this road are a bit out of my age bracket these days, like the Blast! clothing store, when funds permit who knows I may even look in the leather shop. I've often thought about having a leather jacket, though can't help thinking of the rather nasty PVC imitation I once wore during the seventies.
However, the shop I shall return to most often without a doubt is the always helpful Christian Resource Centre. Though I've always thought the name a bit dull, it's a brilliant shop where I sometimes have to control my impulse to buy yet more Christian books and magazines. However, the staff and particularly the manager Kevin are always friendly and helpful and a credit to the Christian book trade. Even their vended cappuccino is not bad!
Seaside Road's other brilliant curiosity is The Musgrave Collection the brainchild of one local man, incredibly now in his eighties though looking at least ten years younger than that. A fascinating place. I visited it for this first time a while ago. When, I can't quite remember. Oh, I think it was some time in April though it seems longer. It's dedicated to the life of St Paul, with many beautifully crafted pictures illustrating this together with portraits, models and assorted artefacts on all sorts of aspects of social history- just my sort of place. More info. at http://www.ask.co.uk/ix.asp?q=Musgrave+Collection&ac=none&xx=0&qid=C8EBC5C9E4A20F49941E6968BE63A32C&p=0&s=999&sp=ix&fn=t&b=0&fo=2&r=10&io=1&fp=1&fr=1&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww%2Evisiteastbourne%2Ecom%2Findoor%5Fattractions%2Fmusgrave%2Ehtm&adurl=
I will certainly pay another visit to the attractions of this eclectic mix of shops and services later- it's so convenient. I see that there is even a Learn Direct centre in the internet cafe, which could prove useful for training at the moment. If nothing else, it will cheer me up on a day which started with me feeling in a very down mood, though I am pleased to say the worst of that has now passed. Do I like to be beside the Seaside? Well, my failure to get an interview for the BBC job means that I will probably be by it for a bit longer yet. On balance, despite the occasional calls on my time and energy elsewhere, it's a nice place to be.
Just in case you've wondered, by the way, this is not advertorial but my own unbiased impressions of the local shopping scene. Mind you, it's an interesting idea. Maybe I ought to investigate Adsense!
Friday, 17 September 2004
Culture Club
Hey Douglas Coupland!
This is a challenging and thought-provoking interview with Douglas Coupland, he of Generation X, which first appeared in the Church Times about this time last year. One of my regrets is that I don't either find or make time to read intelligent fiction, or indeed as much non-fiction, as I would wish. His latest novel is called Eleanor Rigby- link on the right of this article- and certainly looks worth reading.
There's a distinct conflict between nihilist cynicism and redemptional optimism in this interview. Parts of it make me feel decidedly uncomfortable at 45, a half-decade beyond Coupland's assertions about reaching 40. Can I really have done all there is to do in this life or, as the song puts it "Is that all there is?".
In some ways, I do know what he means. Often I feel like a pair of scales these days, talking of which I did feel moved to take up the "Big Challenge" offered by the BBC to a Fat Nation (www.bbc.co.uk/fatnation) last night after being horrified when I stepped on my own bathroom scales. I must have looked quite a sight afterwards, doing the recommended buttock-clenching exercises while watching the lovely series Doc Martin with the excellent Martin Clunes!
Since then I've had at least two of my five portions of fruit and veg, and have drunk more water. But how long can I rise to the challenge. I hope and pray I can- I know how much I need to lose weight really, but it's so hard with the enjoyable tastes of savouries, cheeses etc. etc. Unlike one of last night's volunteers, I can take or leave cake but show me a bag of crisps and it's a hard contest.
The scales I'm really talking about here, however are the determiners of spiritual equilibrium, and no judge apart from the Almighty- who I firmly believe does exist, does love us and does have a purpose for all lives- can ever balance those. In fact he has done, once and for all, set them back to "zero" if you like, through the death and resurrection of his only Son, Jesus Christ. Whatever has passed, however much excess baggage or sin we have taken on board, there is always the chance to shed those excess Kill-ograms, no matter how often we fall back into our old ways. Life does not begin at forty, but whenever you accept the living Lord into your life, however hard it may be to recognise Him in an often senseless worldl. In my case, live began at 25.
Even writing this is some form of re-assurance to my own soul, I think, sitting in a quiet flat in Eastbourne where I probably won't see a soul all day unless it's in a shop or out on the street. Actually, I'm not alone- God is Now Here- and times like this and my self-imposed "summer" break are an opportunity and a time to be savoured- to get to know him better, to share the never ending needs of the world and not least for offering the opportunity to write so regularly in this blog!
Lennon and McCartney were very perceptive with one of their saddest songs, though. How many others are there out there like Eleanor Rigby? This week I have heard of at least two others who I can only do my best to help. But my name's not Eleanor Rigby and I hope it's not conceited to say that I've believed for some years now that I have the seeds of greatness within me, but I'm still trying to work out exactly where I'm meant to plant them! Only when I have found that spot in the global garden ( Coupland alludes to the Garden of Eden in a rather strange way about animals- not sure I agree with him there) will I think I find that true happiness, or rather holiness, blossoming.
Last Sunday, at the baptism service at Christ Church I mentioned in my previous posting, I had one of those experiences I find increasingly common, of looking round at unknown faces in the congregation, complete strangers, and somehow seeing something of the image of God in them, which after all they are. God made man in his own image, and the very diversity of those images shows the incomprehensible beauty, wonder, creativity and possibilities of the God who is love, and hence of every precious life he has made. How many of those faces I looked at though really hide loneliness, anxiety, doubt, fear? How many of them have real friendships where they can completely open up? How many of them feel lost without a "road map", to use one of the buzz phrases of the moment?
Of course, in the joy of raising children, which so far life has not presented to me, many I think "find their reason, find their rhyme". There was a wonderful one-hit wonder in the seventies, or was it the eighties, which I think my own dear Dad, God rest his soul, brought back from Heathrow. I think he had the privilege of meeting the song writer boarding a flight. I'm sure we've still got it on a single somewhere. I'll check it out and maybe put a link or the words on here sometime.
Somehow, it's the simple things that often prove the most joyous, that give life its true meaning. For me, increasingly, I find it is in getting back to nature, from watching the flowers in the garden grow, to standing on hill or vale looking out over landscapes glued by the creator with the bond of eternity, to hearing the sweet soaring song of a lark or watching a butterfly or bee flit from stemen to stemen carrying their precious cargo of pollen. It's these sort of things which come naturally to a child, because they are meant to. The excitement of a new discovery seen through clear young eyes unblinded by jaded familiarity, the power of an imagination in which anything is possible and indeed, as many a parent used to say to their precious offspring "There's no such word as can't". These are the precious gifts which so many of us lose as we grow older, sadly.
Except novelists, of course.Imagination, the power to see and represent things differently and to have a vision of a different world (past, present or future) is the very life blood of that sort of creative writer. I'd love to be a novelist or a poet, and indeed when I was in the Lake District exploring Wordsworth's home territory last October a poet in my own soul maybe stirred. On the other hand, maybe there are different creative blood groups- mine feels like a journaller's blood rather than a novelist's. We'll see. Dare I hope to be the next Douglas Coupland?
In the meantime, I go on worrying about the everyday things in a way which seems much more urgent and painful than it ever was in my pre-forty existence- here again, in the interview Coupland, although 4 years younger than me, seems to have discovered something of perhaps every forty-something's angst. These have been a very difficult five years, ever since Dad died just short of seeing in the new century. There are responsibilities and concerns I never really had to think about before too much. I worry about my Mum and the limitations of age on her activity levels and interest in the world. I worry about finding the right job, living in the right area, sharing all these things with the best of friends and daring to hope I may yet find my Miss Right. Reconciling all these seemingly conflicting interests certainly seems to demand the wisdom of Solomon. Yet the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom. Maybe it is also the beginning of life, forty or twenty.
This is a challenging and thought-provoking interview with Douglas Coupland, he of Generation X, which first appeared in the Church Times about this time last year. One of my regrets is that I don't either find or make time to read intelligent fiction, or indeed as much non-fiction, as I would wish. His latest novel is called Eleanor Rigby- link on the right of this article- and certainly looks worth reading.
There's a distinct conflict between nihilist cynicism and redemptional optimism in this interview. Parts of it make me feel decidedly uncomfortable at 45, a half-decade beyond Coupland's assertions about reaching 40. Can I really have done all there is to do in this life or, as the song puts it "Is that all there is?".
In some ways, I do know what he means. Often I feel like a pair of scales these days, talking of which I did feel moved to take up the "Big Challenge" offered by the BBC to a Fat Nation (www.bbc.co.uk/fatnation) last night after being horrified when I stepped on my own bathroom scales. I must have looked quite a sight afterwards, doing the recommended buttock-clenching exercises while watching the lovely series Doc Martin with the excellent Martin Clunes!
Since then I've had at least two of my five portions of fruit and veg, and have drunk more water. But how long can I rise to the challenge. I hope and pray I can- I know how much I need to lose weight really, but it's so hard with the enjoyable tastes of savouries, cheeses etc. etc. Unlike one of last night's volunteers, I can take or leave cake but show me a bag of crisps and it's a hard contest.
The scales I'm really talking about here, however are the determiners of spiritual equilibrium, and no judge apart from the Almighty- who I firmly believe does exist, does love us and does have a purpose for all lives- can ever balance those. In fact he has done, once and for all, set them back to "zero" if you like, through the death and resurrection of his only Son, Jesus Christ. Whatever has passed, however much excess baggage or sin we have taken on board, there is always the chance to shed those excess Kill-ograms, no matter how often we fall back into our old ways. Life does not begin at forty, but whenever you accept the living Lord into your life, however hard it may be to recognise Him in an often senseless worldl. In my case, live began at 25.
Even writing this is some form of re-assurance to my own soul, I think, sitting in a quiet flat in Eastbourne where I probably won't see a soul all day unless it's in a shop or out on the street. Actually, I'm not alone- God is Now Here- and times like this and my self-imposed "summer" break are an opportunity and a time to be savoured- to get to know him better, to share the never ending needs of the world and not least for offering the opportunity to write so regularly in this blog!
Lennon and McCartney were very perceptive with one of their saddest songs, though. How many others are there out there like Eleanor Rigby? This week I have heard of at least two others who I can only do my best to help. But my name's not Eleanor Rigby and I hope it's not conceited to say that I've believed for some years now that I have the seeds of greatness within me, but I'm still trying to work out exactly where I'm meant to plant them! Only when I have found that spot in the global garden ( Coupland alludes to the Garden of Eden in a rather strange way about animals- not sure I agree with him there) will I think I find that true happiness, or rather holiness, blossoming.
Last Sunday, at the baptism service at Christ Church I mentioned in my previous posting, I had one of those experiences I find increasingly common, of looking round at unknown faces in the congregation, complete strangers, and somehow seeing something of the image of God in them, which after all they are. God made man in his own image, and the very diversity of those images shows the incomprehensible beauty, wonder, creativity and possibilities of the God who is love, and hence of every precious life he has made. How many of those faces I looked at though really hide loneliness, anxiety, doubt, fear? How many of them have real friendships where they can completely open up? How many of them feel lost without a "road map", to use one of the buzz phrases of the moment?
Of course, in the joy of raising children, which so far life has not presented to me, many I think "find their reason, find their rhyme". There was a wonderful one-hit wonder in the seventies, or was it the eighties, which I think my own dear Dad, God rest his soul, brought back from Heathrow. I think he had the privilege of meeting the song writer boarding a flight. I'm sure we've still got it on a single somewhere. I'll check it out and maybe put a link or the words on here sometime.
Somehow, it's the simple things that often prove the most joyous, that give life its true meaning. For me, increasingly, I find it is in getting back to nature, from watching the flowers in the garden grow, to standing on hill or vale looking out over landscapes glued by the creator with the bond of eternity, to hearing the sweet soaring song of a lark or watching a butterfly or bee flit from stemen to stemen carrying their precious cargo of pollen. It's these sort of things which come naturally to a child, because they are meant to. The excitement of a new discovery seen through clear young eyes unblinded by jaded familiarity, the power of an imagination in which anything is possible and indeed, as many a parent used to say to their precious offspring "There's no such word as can't". These are the precious gifts which so many of us lose as we grow older, sadly.
Except novelists, of course.Imagination, the power to see and represent things differently and to have a vision of a different world (past, present or future) is the very life blood of that sort of creative writer. I'd love to be a novelist or a poet, and indeed when I was in the Lake District exploring Wordsworth's home territory last October a poet in my own soul maybe stirred. On the other hand, maybe there are different creative blood groups- mine feels like a journaller's blood rather than a novelist's. We'll see. Dare I hope to be the next Douglas Coupland?
In the meantime, I go on worrying about the everyday things in a way which seems much more urgent and painful than it ever was in my pre-forty existence- here again, in the interview Coupland, although 4 years younger than me, seems to have discovered something of perhaps every forty-something's angst. These have been a very difficult five years, ever since Dad died just short of seeing in the new century. There are responsibilities and concerns I never really had to think about before too much. I worry about my Mum and the limitations of age on her activity levels and interest in the world. I worry about finding the right job, living in the right area, sharing all these things with the best of friends and daring to hope I may yet find my Miss Right. Reconciling all these seemingly conflicting interests certainly seems to demand the wisdom of Solomon. Yet the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom. Maybe it is also the beginning of life, forty or twenty.
God Spare Channel 4
Netscape.co.uk - Entertainment
This is one of the main stories on Netscape this morning; I couldn't believe the crassness of whoever at Channel 4 chose the working title Priest Idol for a new series due on air late next year which aims to find a new vicar for a flagging church in Barnsley.
Whatever the merits of the show, in the case of "Priest" and "Idol", surely ne'er the twain should meet? According to the Torygraph the Bishop of Wakefield has misgivings about the title: I'm not surprised! I think even Channel 4 would have more sense than to use that as an actual on-air title. It's surely a very sad sign of the times, of our society which while claiming not to be Godless, has so little knowledge of the basics of the Ten Commandments, at least if this unknown individual's choice of heading is anything to go by. Please God they will garner some understanding and even faith as they put the programme together- and that the eventual "winner" is His choice, not that of the TV ratings. May this opportunity prove to be, as the bishop has suggested, "a gift"
Yes, everyone wants a minister, pastor or priest with personality and a way with people. It's probably a pre-requisite of the job, though I must admit I've met a few ladies and gentleman of the cloth whose pewside manner left something to be desired. A growing church is an inspiration, and a service is all the more to be savoured if the minister knows how to put the gospel across in an interesting and relevant manner. This was particularly the case at Christ Church on Sunday when it was wonderful to see the church filled with all ages for the baptism of triplets and another precious child. John did a great job and a great illustrated "sermon" wearing a whole variety of hats from a Rolf-Harris type get up to a disco dancing tinsel wig. At least he's not afraid of looking silly and it got the message across well I thought. He certainly makes a good children's entertainer. But make idols of God's servants? Mmm, it's a very slippery slope.
This is one of the main stories on Netscape this morning; I couldn't believe the crassness of whoever at Channel 4 chose the working title Priest Idol for a new series due on air late next year which aims to find a new vicar for a flagging church in Barnsley.
Whatever the merits of the show, in the case of "Priest" and "Idol", surely ne'er the twain should meet? According to the Torygraph the Bishop of Wakefield has misgivings about the title: I'm not surprised! I think even Channel 4 would have more sense than to use that as an actual on-air title. It's surely a very sad sign of the times, of our society which while claiming not to be Godless, has so little knowledge of the basics of the Ten Commandments, at least if this unknown individual's choice of heading is anything to go by. Please God they will garner some understanding and even faith as they put the programme together- and that the eventual "winner" is His choice, not that of the TV ratings. May this opportunity prove to be, as the bishop has suggested, "a gift"
Yes, everyone wants a minister, pastor or priest with personality and a way with people. It's probably a pre-requisite of the job, though I must admit I've met a few ladies and gentleman of the cloth whose pewside manner left something to be desired. A growing church is an inspiration, and a service is all the more to be savoured if the minister knows how to put the gospel across in an interesting and relevant manner. This was particularly the case at Christ Church on Sunday when it was wonderful to see the church filled with all ages for the baptism of triplets and another precious child. John did a great job and a great illustrated "sermon" wearing a whole variety of hats from a Rolf-Harris type get up to a disco dancing tinsel wig. At least he's not afraid of looking silly and it got the message across well I thought. He certainly makes a good children's entertainer. But make idols of God's servants? Mmm, it's a very slippery slope.
Thursday, 16 September 2004
Sailing by, bloop, bloop, bloop.
Dangerous thinking, the blog from David Rosam: Sailing By
And here are the thoughts of the guy who simply loathes both Sailing By and the Radio 4 UK theme! Ah well, you can't please them all all of the time.
And here are the thoughts of the guy who simply loathes both Sailing By and the Radio 4 UK theme! Ah well, you can't please them all all of the time.
Tunes help you wake more easily
Not In Production: Medleys and Marches
Not everyone shares my enthusiasm for the Radio 4 start-up theme, but the webmaster of this site does. Ah, don't start me on that subject or I will wallow in a nostalgia fest featuring Salute to Thames, Perpetuum Mobile, etc etc- all of which you can read more about on this site among others.. The contrary view follows
Not everyone shares my enthusiasm for the Radio 4 start-up theme, but the webmaster of this site does. Ah, don't start me on that subject or I will wallow in a nostalgia fest featuring Salute to Thames, Perpetuum Mobile, etc etc- all of which you can read more about on this site among others.. The contrary view follows
Norwegian Sailors
What shall we do with the drunken sailor
Getting into this search for the lyrics of the various tunes on the Radio4UK Theme right now has produced some interesting curiosities. Should you feel so inclined, grab some chime bars- chords provided- and sing along to this Norwegian version some helpful troll has posted. I suppose they got to know the tune while Sailing By North Utsire, South Utsire or even South East Iceland through merciless North Sea gales and waves as high as a Fjord transit.
Ah the good old shipping forecast: like the ravens of the Tower of London, should it ever disappear from the airwaves then Britons will be slaves and Britannia will have given up her command from Heaven to rule the waves. How long can I keep the metaphors flowing this morning, I wonder: until Rome in Tiber melt? Wrong country, wrong writer [ Shakespeare, but which play?]- sorry. I must still be thinking of the gorgeous Umbrian scenery the Anglican vicar of Rome enjoys from the wonderful garden he now has thanks to Ground Force, which lulled me off to sleep during a repeat last night.
The pillars of British national life have been taking a pounding this week though every bit as frightening in this post 9/11 world as anything nature can throw at us. Although mercifully no terrorists were involved, a "Fathers for Justice" protester dressed as Batman managed to scale a wall of Buck House on Monday -equipped with nothing but a ladder-while yesterday the very foundations of parliamentary democracy were threatened when five activists burst into the chamber of the House of Commons as the bill to ban foxhunting was in its final stages. Meanwhile, outside riots reminiscent of the anti- Poll tax skirmishes of the early 90s made a sickening sight in Parliament Square.
If all this were not so serious, it would be comical: the media have likened the commons fiasco, with scenes of 'men in tights' attempting to arrest the protagonists, to the Keystone Kops. What a sad world we now live in: if the week started with the BBC asking what it means to be British, is this now it? Some have even likened the happenings in Westminster yesterday to a civil war- the battle of town against country. Maybe with UN statistics showing the world has now become more urban than rural that is the crux of it, and how tragic it is that it should come to this. Man started as hunter-gatherer: we ploughed the fields and scattered the good seed on the land. And God said kill-eat (with apologies to any of my vegetarian friends). Typical man perverted this: God did not say kill-sport, though of course I'm aware that the fox is potentially a very nasty pest in farming communities.
Who can know how this will all end? Please God that it won't be in anarchy. The commemorations of the third anniversary of the Twin Towers atrocities this week were somewhat muted, with enough new horrors and worries to occupy the minds of the great and the good, let alone the common man. Hurricane Ivan is terrible indeed. New Orleans has become like a ghost port, Grenada has been devastated, and the archetypal laid back attitude of the latitude has had to give way to desperate preventive measures and heading for the hills. I've had particular concerns for folk I know in Mobile, Alabama, where tornadoes and floods made landfall last night.
I don't think I've known a September like this for so much worry and grief. Beslan's living nightmare has passed from the headlines, but it will remain vivid and horrific for many a month, years even to those who survived. And yet yesterday saw signs of hope, as other Beslan little ones returned to school. However awful this world seems,despite it all the oft-quoted remains a truism: life must go on. To do otherwise is to give in to despair , rather than to see the beauty which still permeates this awesomely complex world and universe,and the amazing works which many committed to the betterment of society carry out every day. Last night while watching Corrie, there was an ad for Philips which drew me to their website http://www.simplicity.philips.com. Take a look: it features some fascinating glimpses of new developments the Dutch giant are involved in, particularly in Medicine. There is an awe-inspiring 3D image of a foetus in the womb, a home de-fibrillator to re-start the heart and remarkably detailed images of the inside of the human body in the latest in CT scanners. The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy returns to Radio 4 next Tuesday evening; I can't wait, but meanwhile I think the way the TV version ended, with Louis Armstrong singing What a Wonderful World remains true.
Staying with the happier side of life and those morning melodies, I was surprised by how many other verses are available for What Shall we Do with the Drunken Sailor, but as some of them might offend sensitive tastes I have spared you those. The shanty does have a fascinating history though. Find out more, and those alternative versions, at http://www.geocities.com/Yosemite/Trails/2625/song1.html
Next time, more on Early One Morning. It's warming up here in Eastbourne although the gorgeous Caddy Lee Preston tells us there's not much weather to talk about! Staying dry, bright and warm for the whole of next week as well, which has to be good news, at least
Getting into this search for the lyrics of the various tunes on the Radio4UK Theme right now has produced some interesting curiosities. Should you feel so inclined, grab some chime bars- chords provided- and sing along to this Norwegian version some helpful troll has posted. I suppose they got to know the tune while Sailing By North Utsire, South Utsire or even South East Iceland through merciless North Sea gales and waves as high as a Fjord transit.
Ah the good old shipping forecast: like the ravens of the Tower of London, should it ever disappear from the airwaves then Britons will be slaves and Britannia will have given up her command from Heaven to rule the waves. How long can I keep the metaphors flowing this morning, I wonder: until Rome in Tiber melt? Wrong country, wrong writer [ Shakespeare, but which play?]- sorry. I must still be thinking of the gorgeous Umbrian scenery the Anglican vicar of Rome enjoys from the wonderful garden he now has thanks to Ground Force, which lulled me off to sleep during a repeat last night.
The pillars of British national life have been taking a pounding this week though every bit as frightening in this post 9/11 world as anything nature can throw at us. Although mercifully no terrorists were involved, a "Fathers for Justice" protester dressed as Batman managed to scale a wall of Buck House on Monday -equipped with nothing but a ladder-while yesterday the very foundations of parliamentary democracy were threatened when five activists burst into the chamber of the House of Commons as the bill to ban foxhunting was in its final stages. Meanwhile, outside riots reminiscent of the anti- Poll tax skirmishes of the early 90s made a sickening sight in Parliament Square.
If all this were not so serious, it would be comical: the media have likened the commons fiasco, with scenes of 'men in tights' attempting to arrest the protagonists, to the Keystone Kops. What a sad world we now live in: if the week started with the BBC asking what it means to be British, is this now it? Some have even likened the happenings in Westminster yesterday to a civil war- the battle of town against country. Maybe with UN statistics showing the world has now become more urban than rural that is the crux of it, and how tragic it is that it should come to this. Man started as hunter-gatherer: we ploughed the fields and scattered the good seed on the land. And God said kill-eat (with apologies to any of my vegetarian friends). Typical man perverted this: God did not say kill-sport, though of course I'm aware that the fox is potentially a very nasty pest in farming communities.
Who can know how this will all end? Please God that it won't be in anarchy. The commemorations of the third anniversary of the Twin Towers atrocities this week were somewhat muted, with enough new horrors and worries to occupy the minds of the great and the good, let alone the common man. Hurricane Ivan is terrible indeed. New Orleans has become like a ghost port, Grenada has been devastated, and the archetypal laid back attitude of the latitude has had to give way to desperate preventive measures and heading for the hills. I've had particular concerns for folk I know in Mobile, Alabama, where tornadoes and floods made landfall last night.
I don't think I've known a September like this for so much worry and grief. Beslan's living nightmare has passed from the headlines, but it will remain vivid and horrific for many a month, years even to those who survived. And yet yesterday saw signs of hope, as other Beslan little ones returned to school. However awful this world seems,despite it all the oft-quoted remains a truism: life must go on. To do otherwise is to give in to despair , rather than to see the beauty which still permeates this awesomely complex world and universe,and the amazing works which many committed to the betterment of society carry out every day. Last night while watching Corrie, there was an ad for Philips which drew me to their website http://www.simplicity.philips.com. Take a look: it features some fascinating glimpses of new developments the Dutch giant are involved in, particularly in Medicine. There is an awe-inspiring 3D image of a foetus in the womb, a home de-fibrillator to re-start the heart and remarkably detailed images of the inside of the human body in the latest in CT scanners. The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy returns to Radio 4 next Tuesday evening; I can't wait, but meanwhile I think the way the TV version ended, with Louis Armstrong singing What a Wonderful World remains true.
Staying with the happier side of life and those morning melodies, I was surprised by how many other verses are available for What Shall we Do with the Drunken Sailor, but as some of them might offend sensitive tastes I have spared you those. The shanty does have a fascinating history though. Find out more, and those alternative versions, at http://www.geocities.com/Yosemite/Trails/2625/song1.html
Next time, more on Early One Morning. It's warming up here in Eastbourne although the gorgeous Caddy Lee Preston tells us there's not much weather to talk about! Staying dry, bright and warm for the whole of next week as well, which has to be good news, at least
Tuesday, 14 September 2004
Early one morning..
BBC - Religion & Ethics - Prayer For The Day
... just as the sun wasn't rising. More like the cloud emptying and the wind blowing this morning, but nevertheless I enjoyed my comforting start to the day with the Radio4 UK theme, which includes this old English folk tune. I really must learn the words properly, so that I can properly discover the fate of the "maiden singing in the valley below", and perhaps find out why she is so grieved at the departure of her loved one. I'm sure I'll find the lyrics on the web somewhere, and will perhaps add a link when I do.
However, for the moment the link in this blog will take you to the far more important and often helpful "Prayer for the Day" on the bbc.co.uk website. What you see if you follow it will probably depend on the date you are reading this,as I think it always points to the current date's prayer and no others are archived, unfortunately. Usually worth a read anyway, though can occasionally be a bit too obscure and intellectual for 05.43 British time! But then, that's good old Radio 4 for you.
This morning's pray-er though was delivered by Rev Dr Leslie Griffiths, a fine old Methodist preacher in the Donald Soper tradition. With his lovely Welsh accent and warm, down to earth thoughts, he's always one of my favourites, rather like Dr Colin Morris, a fellow Methodist, who has much influenced me in my own style I think- indeed both of them have. Should I end up moving to Reading, or getting back into the Staines and Feltham circuit, maybe at long last I can train properly as a lay preacher. But maybe I need to learn this virtue, like Leslie....
Tuesday 14 September 2004
Revd Dr Leslie Griffiths
Patience isn't my longest suit. I have the same sorts of virtues and vices as most people - compassion fights its daily battle with selfishness, courage vies with cowardice, and good struggles against evil for possession of my soul. When all's said and one, I'm a pretty average specimen. I tend to be as virtuous (and as vicious) as those around me. But when it comes to patience, I have a hunch that I'm a sad case. My attention thresholds are too low, my fuses are too short, I'm far too eager for things to happen now, right now. I'm lousy at waiting for anything or anyone.
So it's odd, to say the least, that one of my favourite biblical passages is the verse with which one of the songs in the world's oldest hymn book, the book of Psalms, begins. "I waited patiently for the Lord," it announces, a statement that should be an immediate turnoff for someone like me. But I've come to understand these words in an entirely new way. Waiting patiently doesn't mean being passive or empty of initiative; rather, in the way the Bible uses it, it suggests expectancy, hope, anticipation of something about to take place or be experienced. We wait with eager expectation and, the verse goes on, this leads to the recognition of a God who inclines towards us and hears our cry. Our very waiting is filled with the possibility of fulfilment. That makes waiting an active state and eminently worth practicing even by someone like me.
Dear Lord,
Help us to expect to see signs of your presence in the lives we live and the people we meet. Keep joy in our hearts, we pray, and fill our whole being with your love.
Through Christ who is the Light of the World. Amen.
Thank you, Leslie, or rather thank you Lord, for reminding me that I'm no different to any other human being with those faults and failings I sometimes loath so much in myself. I need patience right now for the right job, which may or may not be with BBC Monitoring, to become mine-but I wait expectantly and very eagerly for your will to be done, on earth as it is in Heaven.
And so, after another quick e-mail, it's time for bed, said Zebedee. Now, I wonder how they are coming along with the big screen Magic Roundabout. Robbie Williams as Dougal or Dylan, I believe? The mind boggles!
... just as the sun wasn't rising. More like the cloud emptying and the wind blowing this morning, but nevertheless I enjoyed my comforting start to the day with the Radio4 UK theme, which includes this old English folk tune. I really must learn the words properly, so that I can properly discover the fate of the "maiden singing in the valley below", and perhaps find out why she is so grieved at the departure of her loved one. I'm sure I'll find the lyrics on the web somewhere, and will perhaps add a link when I do.
However, for the moment the link in this blog will take you to the far more important and often helpful "Prayer for the Day" on the bbc.co.uk website. What you see if you follow it will probably depend on the date you are reading this,as I think it always points to the current date's prayer and no others are archived, unfortunately. Usually worth a read anyway, though can occasionally be a bit too obscure and intellectual for 05.43 British time! But then, that's good old Radio 4 for you.
This morning's pray-er though was delivered by Rev Dr Leslie Griffiths, a fine old Methodist preacher in the Donald Soper tradition. With his lovely Welsh accent and warm, down to earth thoughts, he's always one of my favourites, rather like Dr Colin Morris, a fellow Methodist, who has much influenced me in my own style I think- indeed both of them have. Should I end up moving to Reading, or getting back into the Staines and Feltham circuit, maybe at long last I can train properly as a lay preacher. But maybe I need to learn this virtue, like Leslie....
Tuesday 14 September 2004
Revd Dr Leslie Griffiths
Patience isn't my longest suit. I have the same sorts of virtues and vices as most people - compassion fights its daily battle with selfishness, courage vies with cowardice, and good struggles against evil for possession of my soul. When all's said and one, I'm a pretty average specimen. I tend to be as virtuous (and as vicious) as those around me. But when it comes to patience, I have a hunch that I'm a sad case. My attention thresholds are too low, my fuses are too short, I'm far too eager for things to happen now, right now. I'm lousy at waiting for anything or anyone.
So it's odd, to say the least, that one of my favourite biblical passages is the verse with which one of the songs in the world's oldest hymn book, the book of Psalms, begins. "I waited patiently for the Lord," it announces, a statement that should be an immediate turnoff for someone like me. But I've come to understand these words in an entirely new way. Waiting patiently doesn't mean being passive or empty of initiative; rather, in the way the Bible uses it, it suggests expectancy, hope, anticipation of something about to take place or be experienced. We wait with eager expectation and, the verse goes on, this leads to the recognition of a God who inclines towards us and hears our cry. Our very waiting is filled with the possibility of fulfilment. That makes waiting an active state and eminently worth practicing even by someone like me.
Dear Lord,
Help us to expect to see signs of your presence in the lives we live and the people we meet. Keep joy in our hearts, we pray, and fill our whole being with your love.
Through Christ who is the Light of the World. Amen.
Thank you, Leslie, or rather thank you Lord, for reminding me that I'm no different to any other human being with those faults and failings I sometimes loath so much in myself. I need patience right now for the right job, which may or may not be with BBC Monitoring, to become mine-but I wait expectantly and very eagerly for your will to be done, on earth as it is in Heaven.
And so, after another quick e-mail, it's time for bed, said Zebedee. Now, I wonder how they are coming along with the big screen Magic Roundabout. Robbie Williams as Dougal or Dylan, I believe? The mind boggles!
Sunday, 12 September 2004
Turn back the clock
Don't we ALL wish we could? Well, maybe, but thousands of lecturers, teachers, assorted academics and writers might all have to re-think their discipline if history became variable to suit the mood of the moment and personal choice so maybe it's not such a good idea!
However, this is a weekend when I've very much thought of heritage, tradition and "Britishness". I hope to publish more thoughts on this later. For the moment, I'm realising there's more to this wonderful business of blogging than meets the eye- I hope I'm getting there, but I still haven't figured out exactly to get the right time stamp on these postings! Bloggers own settings seem to take no account of British Summer Time, so I've set this for the moment to CET- which is probably why it is wrong below. It's actually 2.26 p.m though, so I must go or else I'll miss the once-a-year chance to visit some rarely opened properties on this the second day of the annual HERITAGE OPEN DAYS event. For some bizarre reason, the Royal Borough of Kingston upon Thames prefers to observe it's Surrey heritage than go in with the rest of Greater London next weekend, but maybe that's no bad thing!
However, this is a weekend when I've very much thought of heritage, tradition and "Britishness". I hope to publish more thoughts on this later. For the moment, I'm realising there's more to this wonderful business of blogging than meets the eye- I hope I'm getting there, but I still haven't figured out exactly to get the right time stamp on these postings! Bloggers own settings seem to take no account of British Summer Time, so I've set this for the moment to CET- which is probably why it is wrong below. It's actually 2.26 p.m though, so I must go or else I'll miss the once-a-year chance to visit some rarely opened properties on this the second day of the annual HERITAGE OPEN DAYS event. For some bizarre reason, the Royal Borough of Kingston upon Thames prefers to observe it's Surrey heritage than go in with the rest of Greater London next weekend, but maybe that's no bad thing!
Thursday, 9 September 2004
The Loneliness of the Long Distance Cyclist
Perhaps I should really call this posting Dream Dream Dream, reminding us of that lovely Bobby Gentry and Glenn Campbell love song of the late sixties. I hanker to harmonise, both musically and romantically, every time I hear that.
I've been having some vivid if intriguing dreams of my own over the last few nights. Maybe I shouldn't eat so much cheese before going to bed! They've not been nightmares, though the waking world has provided enough of those over the last week.
On Tuesday night, I was dreaming about a gruelling cycle race, which appeared to be taking place in some mountain setting, possibly the Alps. Although my radio was left on as usual, which sometimes influences my sleeping images, I can't possibly think why I should dream about a bike ride, unless there was a bit of mental detritus left over from TV news coverage of the Tour of Britain race round Westminster on Sunday. I did think of going up to see that actually, being the gregarious soul I often am and enjoying such events, but settled instead for a Sunday snooze and a tasty ice cream after the social exertions of the night before in Shoreham.
Getting back to the cycle dream though, I did seem to be a spectator rather than a rider, but what was so mysterious that somehow the "goalposts" of the ride, the direction indicators and boundaries of the course, had been moved mid-way through the race and nobody seemed to know where they were headed. I was feeling very sorry for a particular female cyclist who looked totally lost. There seemed to be a kind of anarchy about the ride and where people were going and I was most concerned for them.
Maybe in some Freudian way I was thinking about the apparent anarchy of parts of our world, following the terrible end to the school siege in Beslan, Russia last Friday. So far I have made no reference to that in this blog, but on balance it would be wrong for me not to. I say on balance, because one point made by Peter Preston, I think, in a Guardian op-ed piece the day after, is that the guaranteed coverage and world headlines this unbelievably barbaric event has left in its wake are probably just what the terrorists were hoping would happen- a fog of coverage on every front page, every TV screen, every news website the next day. A fog because it still leaves most of us lost, unable to comprehend how anyone, whatever their creed or race, could so mercilessly slaughter the innocent, let alone minors barely out of their cots.
God help us, literally, if that be the case, if we have seen the start of some horrendous 21st century propaganda war which owes as much to the keystroke and the camera as to the shouting match which stops short of bloody atrocity but passes as fair discussion and negotiation. The media and politicos face a new dilemma: can a free and civilised society, the very antithesis of what these "humans" seem to advocate in support of their "cause", supress actuality reporting of even the most gruesome of events? This seems like the only way to starve evil of the oxygen of publicity, but in so doing are we not dangerously close to perpetrating a new evil ourselves.?
"Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free" rings very hollow at such times as this, but it can surely be the world's only hope. With the third anniversary of 9/11 just two days away, the world seems once again to be threatened with a knife edge of fear every bit as great as that following the twin towers atrocity.
The reservoirs of tears shed at the sight of beautiful young lives ended so brutally could end a drought. This is not just compassion fatigue, no. This feels like a marathon of despair and grief which mind and soul cannot endure, least of all those most affected by it- the mothers of Mother Russia. The sights of Beslan wring every last kilocalorie of empathy, sympathy and sorrow out of any decent soul. There has to be hope: God help Russia. Help us, in the face of evil, to forgive those that trespass against us. It's as hard as peddling uphill all the way, when you don't even know where you're going or where the journey will end. Thank the Lord that for believers, we know at least that there is an end to all this. There will come a time when the lion will lie down with the lamb and swords (=any weapon of destruction, mass or minor) will be turned into ploughshares. We can but dream, we can but pray.
I've been having some vivid if intriguing dreams of my own over the last few nights. Maybe I shouldn't eat so much cheese before going to bed! They've not been nightmares, though the waking world has provided enough of those over the last week.
On Tuesday night, I was dreaming about a gruelling cycle race, which appeared to be taking place in some mountain setting, possibly the Alps. Although my radio was left on as usual, which sometimes influences my sleeping images, I can't possibly think why I should dream about a bike ride, unless there was a bit of mental detritus left over from TV news coverage of the Tour of Britain race round Westminster on Sunday. I did think of going up to see that actually, being the gregarious soul I often am and enjoying such events, but settled instead for a Sunday snooze and a tasty ice cream after the social exertions of the night before in Shoreham.
Getting back to the cycle dream though, I did seem to be a spectator rather than a rider, but what was so mysterious that somehow the "goalposts" of the ride, the direction indicators and boundaries of the course, had been moved mid-way through the race and nobody seemed to know where they were headed. I was feeling very sorry for a particular female cyclist who looked totally lost. There seemed to be a kind of anarchy about the ride and where people were going and I was most concerned for them.
Maybe in some Freudian way I was thinking about the apparent anarchy of parts of our world, following the terrible end to the school siege in Beslan, Russia last Friday. So far I have made no reference to that in this blog, but on balance it would be wrong for me not to. I say on balance, because one point made by Peter Preston, I think, in a Guardian op-ed piece the day after, is that the guaranteed coverage and world headlines this unbelievably barbaric event has left in its wake are probably just what the terrorists were hoping would happen- a fog of coverage on every front page, every TV screen, every news website the next day. A fog because it still leaves most of us lost, unable to comprehend how anyone, whatever their creed or race, could so mercilessly slaughter the innocent, let alone minors barely out of their cots.
God help us, literally, if that be the case, if we have seen the start of some horrendous 21st century propaganda war which owes as much to the keystroke and the camera as to the shouting match which stops short of bloody atrocity but passes as fair discussion and negotiation. The media and politicos face a new dilemma: can a free and civilised society, the very antithesis of what these "humans" seem to advocate in support of their "cause", supress actuality reporting of even the most gruesome of events? This seems like the only way to starve evil of the oxygen of publicity, but in so doing are we not dangerously close to perpetrating a new evil ourselves.?
"Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free" rings very hollow at such times as this, but it can surely be the world's only hope. With the third anniversary of 9/11 just two days away, the world seems once again to be threatened with a knife edge of fear every bit as great as that following the twin towers atrocity.
The reservoirs of tears shed at the sight of beautiful young lives ended so brutally could end a drought. This is not just compassion fatigue, no. This feels like a marathon of despair and grief which mind and soul cannot endure, least of all those most affected by it- the mothers of Mother Russia. The sights of Beslan wring every last kilocalorie of empathy, sympathy and sorrow out of any decent soul. There has to be hope: God help Russia. Help us, in the face of evil, to forgive those that trespass against us. It's as hard as peddling uphill all the way, when you don't even know where you're going or where the journey will end. Thank the Lord that for believers, we know at least that there is an end to all this. There will come a time when the lion will lie down with the lamb and swords (=any weapon of destruction, mass or minor) will be turned into ploughshares. We can but dream, we can but pray.
Sunday, 5 September 2004
Good old Shoreham by the Sea!
I hope that the estate of the late Mr Ward Higgs will forgive me altering the title of his wonderful old marching band tune just a little for tonight's late night rambling, because that's where I've been today. Down to the seaside again, just for the evening would you believe, to attend Andrew Tett's DX meeting.
It proved to be a very welcome and cooling excursion, on what has been a very hot inland September day (28 degrees or so!) but quite apart from the sea breeze, my body was cooled by the treasure trove discovery of some great new ales in the excellent CAMRA approved pub opposite Shoreham by Sea station, the Buckingham Arms. I was first to arrive, and started with a nice pint of Greene King Mild-which I did not even know they brewed-courtesy of Andrew. Soon afterwards, I was delighted to see Stephen Howie again, who had also come down on the train though not, I think, on the same one as me. He's a really nice lad and quite mature, I think, though wonder what he thought of us bunch of old timers- looking round the pub later, I realised that Andrew, at only two years my junior, was the next youngest person in our gathering!
Second pint was Wherry from Norfolk, somewhat disappointing really, but then it had been on open stillage for a week, left over from last weekend's beer festival there. Still, you can't really moan at £1.20 a pint! When the other club members turned up- Mike Terry, Nick Quinn- who uncannily I had a mental picture of the other night though having not seen him for three years- Peter Wells and, finally and unexpectedly, Dave and Alan, we had our second pint which we made linger quite a while as we sat in the car park area out the front enjoying the almost tropical evening air. I took my jumper with me, but didn't even need it. Memories came back to me later of a similar evening in Central London many years ago now, when we held the annual BDXC meeting there. September does seem to be a nice last burst of summer many years- and long may it continue.
It was good to see Mike again tonight, who brought along his vintage QSL collection which certainly proved a talking point. We had some interesting and wide ranging conversations on radio and technology topics tonight-very anoraky but very enjoyable. Mike I feel is very good at drawing people out of themselves and making a social occasion like this into something special. The meeting also had its quieter types, of course- who I wlll not embarrass by mentioning in print- but variety is the staff of life and it does indeed take all sorts to make a world.
The only dampener for me was that I had a bit of a headache which lingered much of the evening, but it could have been worse and for once I managed to finish all my Indian meal!
WHAT'S NEEDED IS A LITTLE APPLICATION..
I meant to do a blog earlier in the week with this title. Whatever DID happen to the PG Tips chimps, by the way, where that became a catchphrase for a while in one of their classic ads? We were promised they were not being axed, despite the rise of the claymation "student" characters in their own jaunty little ads, but sign of the famous chimps has there been none for at least a year or more now. I think they may have grinned their last-very sad really, as they were an institution, rather like routemaster buses which are also on their way out with three prime routes going over to bendy bus operation today.
Anyway, the "little application" I'm referring to is for a job as an "Editorial Support Co-Ordinator" at BBC Monitoring in Caversham. This came up on an e-mail alert about ten days ago, and encouraged by Chris G as well as Dave and Alan (who is also applying, apparently) my application went in on Thursday. I must confess to certain mixed feelings about this one -excitement about the prospects of a new job which could potentially be quite interesting, or at least in an interesting environment, but also the usual self-doubts and indeed soul doubts over where I should really be next, particularly given Mum's increasing frailty. Not easy to take decisions at such times, is it.
Still, I guess I have nothing to lose by trying for this and, who knows, it could be the start of an exciting new phase in my life. Watch this space!
Although the journey back from Shoreham didn't go quite as planned- I just missed a direct train to Clapham from Shoreham- it did not then prove as lengthy as I feared, as by catching a Thameslink from Brighton to Haywards Heath and then changing to a Southern service to Clapham Junction, I was still back in Feltham just after midnight. Actually, this particular journey augurs well for keeping up my connections with my friends on the South Coast if I subsequently move to Reading- because that is where my train was going!
For the moment bed beckons. This is the day that the Lord has made, and I look forward to rejoicing and being glad in it later, especially as the weather looks promising again. However, it's also a day of rest: a pity our greedy society seems to have lost sight of that sacredness as the anniversary of the relaxation of Sunday trading laws has passed this week. I'm all for a new theme song for the Keep Sunday Special brigade, as used rather whimsically at the finale of the Olympic Closing ceremony a week ago: Never on a Sunday!
It proved to be a very welcome and cooling excursion, on what has been a very hot inland September day (28 degrees or so!) but quite apart from the sea breeze, my body was cooled by the treasure trove discovery of some great new ales in the excellent CAMRA approved pub opposite Shoreham by Sea station, the Buckingham Arms. I was first to arrive, and started with a nice pint of Greene King Mild-which I did not even know they brewed-courtesy of Andrew. Soon afterwards, I was delighted to see Stephen Howie again, who had also come down on the train though not, I think, on the same one as me. He's a really nice lad and quite mature, I think, though wonder what he thought of us bunch of old timers- looking round the pub later, I realised that Andrew, at only two years my junior, was the next youngest person in our gathering!
Second pint was Wherry from Norfolk, somewhat disappointing really, but then it had been on open stillage for a week, left over from last weekend's beer festival there. Still, you can't really moan at £1.20 a pint! When the other club members turned up- Mike Terry, Nick Quinn- who uncannily I had a mental picture of the other night though having not seen him for three years- Peter Wells and, finally and unexpectedly, Dave and Alan, we had our second pint which we made linger quite a while as we sat in the car park area out the front enjoying the almost tropical evening air. I took my jumper with me, but didn't even need it. Memories came back to me later of a similar evening in Central London many years ago now, when we held the annual BDXC meeting there. September does seem to be a nice last burst of summer many years- and long may it continue.
It was good to see Mike again tonight, who brought along his vintage QSL collection which certainly proved a talking point. We had some interesting and wide ranging conversations on radio and technology topics tonight-very anoraky but very enjoyable. Mike I feel is very good at drawing people out of themselves and making a social occasion like this into something special. The meeting also had its quieter types, of course- who I wlll not embarrass by mentioning in print- but variety is the staff of life and it does indeed take all sorts to make a world.
The only dampener for me was that I had a bit of a headache which lingered much of the evening, but it could have been worse and for once I managed to finish all my Indian meal!
WHAT'S NEEDED IS A LITTLE APPLICATION..
I meant to do a blog earlier in the week with this title. Whatever DID happen to the PG Tips chimps, by the way, where that became a catchphrase for a while in one of their classic ads? We were promised they were not being axed, despite the rise of the claymation "student" characters in their own jaunty little ads, but sign of the famous chimps has there been none for at least a year or more now. I think they may have grinned their last-very sad really, as they were an institution, rather like routemaster buses which are also on their way out with three prime routes going over to bendy bus operation today.
Anyway, the "little application" I'm referring to is for a job as an "Editorial Support Co-Ordinator" at BBC Monitoring in Caversham. This came up on an e-mail alert about ten days ago, and encouraged by Chris G as well as Dave and Alan (who is also applying, apparently) my application went in on Thursday. I must confess to certain mixed feelings about this one -excitement about the prospects of a new job which could potentially be quite interesting, or at least in an interesting environment, but also the usual self-doubts and indeed soul doubts over where I should really be next, particularly given Mum's increasing frailty. Not easy to take decisions at such times, is it.
Still, I guess I have nothing to lose by trying for this and, who knows, it could be the start of an exciting new phase in my life. Watch this space!
Although the journey back from Shoreham didn't go quite as planned- I just missed a direct train to Clapham from Shoreham- it did not then prove as lengthy as I feared, as by catching a Thameslink from Brighton to Haywards Heath and then changing to a Southern service to Clapham Junction, I was still back in Feltham just after midnight. Actually, this particular journey augurs well for keeping up my connections with my friends on the South Coast if I subsequently move to Reading- because that is where my train was going!
For the moment bed beckons. This is the day that the Lord has made, and I look forward to rejoicing and being glad in it later, especially as the weather looks promising again. However, it's also a day of rest: a pity our greedy society seems to have lost sight of that sacredness as the anniversary of the relaxation of Sunday trading laws has passed this week. I'm all for a new theme song for the Keep Sunday Special brigade, as used rather whimsically at the finale of the Olympic Closing ceremony a week ago: Never on a Sunday!
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