Labour Pains

Round about this time in her pregancy, the Virgin Mary must have been getting very uncomfortable. The Bible doesn't elaborate on the time scale of how long the journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem would have taken, but in times long before the advent of luxury suspension Mercedes ambulances it certainly wouldn't have been an easy journey, whether on foot or even less on a grumpy donkey.
I'd always kind of assumed that the third Sunday in Advent was devoted to Mary's part in the nativity story, but I may be wrong. In any event, today is celebrated in the Roman Catholic tradition as "Gaudete" (pronounced Gow-day-tay) Sunday, which apparently means "Rejoice". Amazing what you can learn from a Radio 4 Sunday Worship; from my limited knowledge of Latin I knew it must have something to do with Christmas, but hitherto I'd always assumed this was just a rather catchy seasonal song by the brilliant Steeleye Span sung in uniquely nasal voices.

Certainly, once you get into the "decades" of December and even more the teens starting tomorrow, then the big day is surely near. It's a time of expectancy and preparation indeed, but it's so sad that in our "must have it now" society, the discipline of waiting gives way to the quick fix of current pleasure that so many crave.
Let's not get precious about it though: on dull winter days like today, when the sun ain't gonna shine any more, the delights of this season crave indulgence to ease the gloom. The Toy and Carol service at my home church here this morning was pure delight, with playthings sure to delight little eyes and disadvantaged kids come the 25th, a marvellously lit tree, the traditional crib and a good old Methodist sing-song. Not to mention a surprisingly large congregation to gladden the heart for Mum and I- so pleased I managed to get her to come.

I see no reason why in what is supposed to be a period of a spiritual "clean up" there should not be room for a little early celebration, particularly on the Lord's Day. The Europeans do this sort of thing so much better than us, and this time last week it was lovely to celebrate an Advent Sunday with some of my faithful friends in the very English setting of Shoreham by Sea. I'm a huge fan of one of Germany's many festive exports, Stollen, and this sugary, spongy delight should bring a little comfort to another cold afternoon later today, but this time in the bosom of my family here in Feltham.
Quick fixes though can also have permanent consequences! For most of December it has been impossible to escape David Blunkett somewhere in the headlines. The Home Secretary has been forced to put his own house in order publicly, as revelations emerged in a certain Sunday scandal sheet of a love affair which has led to a disputed paternity suit over a child now two and known in coverage as "A", while it is claimed he "fast tracked" a visa application with unacceptable favouritism for the child's nanny. I am not this high-ranking politician's biggest fan by any means, but I do find it galling that so much newsprint is being wasted on beying for his blood and meanwhile far more important issues in the world go largely unreported.

It's not been an easy ride for the Labour party these past few weeks either. Quite apart from possible fall-out with Cabinet colleagues over comments in the forthcoming Blunkett biography, with what has been described as rather bizarre ill-timing ahead of an expected election, Her Majesty's government are now proposing to force all civil servants to labour on for another five years before they can collect their pension for their service to the Crown. Even then it is likely to be based on an average of salary rather than the final salary so enjoyed by many pensioners in public or private employment until now. There are sure to be consequences from this quick fix solution to the baby-boomer pensions timebomb, and it is my generation that will be taking the flak whatever the next twenty years or so bring, I fear

WINTER WINDSOR WANDERINGS
In uncertain times, and though governments may come and go, the British crown is supposedly the rock on which our society stands through good and ill. Yesterday, my brother and I took a late afternoon train trip on the line our grandfather had worked for innumerable years to the fine old Berkshire town from which our current monarch takes her family name. I take a certain pride that this ancient borough is but a 20-minute ride away from Feltham, and from Staines onwards the wheels on the track still go clickety clack, which instantly conjures up memories of the boyish pleasure of trains which never dies for most blokes. Whether loco-hauled or EMU-fronted, the London and South Western Railway as it once was has been helping the great and the good and the sheer blooming rich to make this passage for more than a century and a half now. Or at any rate, they would have done before four by fours and Daimler doors took over to provide their transports of delight to the impressive edifice which has stood sentinel over the town for a millennium or more.

The tree outside Windsor castle looks every bit as majestic as it's bigger cousin in the nation's capital in Trafalgar Square. Yet Windsor as a shopping area is a relatively modest place- though bling understandably abounds in a few ghettos of gentrydom and new money. Few of our coppers ended up being spent in the town, though we did very much enjoy the lights in the main shopping street and looking round the familiar high street retailers in search of cards and ideas. For this also has to be the time when the avalanche of cards starts to snow down on letterboxes and pigeonholes throughout the land- yet mine have yet to be written! Maybe I ought to be getting on with that right now rather than blogging on!

TIMETABLE TROUBLES
Talking of the railways though, it's rare for a week to pass by without them being in the news in some way, shape or form. Complaining about our trains is not just a national pastime, it seems almost to be an international one- not for nothing was Mussolini remembered for getting them to run on time (even if according to Stephen Fry this is a myth). But I wonder what my Grand-dad Wallace would make of the huge logistical exercise which is the new national time table coming into force today. Apparently, it is the first wholesale revision of the patterns of service and train paths since the end of steam in 1967. That was back in the good old days when they probably even still had station cats: as our beloved moggy Mrs (Mitzi) cat is now pestering me for her lunch, it's definitely "time" I go, hoping there are no delays due to frozen points on the food tin.