Should Auld Acquaintance be forgot...?

The question mark is mine, not the immortal Robbie Burns', I think. IS it a statement, or a question? Well, I don't know what Scotland's greatest had in mind, but for me it's a bit of both.

As the timeless words of Auld Lang Syne ring out across millions of places over thousands of kilometres of land and sea today, I'll be taking a cup of kindness indeed- tonight at a party in Eastbourne. But as I sing, I'll also be thinking "Yes" and "no". Like life itself, ALS is a contradiction.

"Yes" the auld acquaintance with the horrors of 2005 which show man or nature at his worst should be forgotten, but the people it affects even today should not. "Yes", the acquaintance with the sadness and the sorrows and the things that have held us back, sometimes for months, sometimes for years, or even decades, should be consigned to the compactor of healed memories, like the dustmen and the recyclers doing their round today collecting all our Christmas detritus.

But then again, "No": the auld and indeed the new acquaintances who mean so much should be brought to mind frequently for their love, their support, their fun, their personalities- and their prayers. The lost loved ones of this last year should be ours, treasured in our memory, not just on New Year's Eve but through all of life.

For Auld Lang Syne- for Old Time's Sake- for the hopes and fears of all the years, not just the one now dying, let us give thanks to the "Potentate of Time", whose footprints span the gap not just between 2005 and 2006, but between man's time and God's eternity.

Here's to the time beyond time, coming some time soon. Thanks for persevering with my ramblings throughout 2005. If you want to let me know what you've thought of any of them, or your own views, please make use of the "comment" tab now, with thanks to all who have already. I hope you enjoy your New Year's, as they say in the States. And here's to your health, happiness and well being, this New Year and always.

Cheers, and I'll see you the other side of the international dateline in 2006!

God Bless

Chitty Chitty Blog Blog

I hope the lawyers of Ian Fleming's estate aren't working long hours over Christmas. If they are, then I'd better watch out as they might not like the title of this piece of writing and they could send some nasty men my way. Well, when you've got the creator of 007 James Bond at your disposal, even when you seem to be dead you can do some very frightening things!

Right now, most people in England are too busy watching their villains, heroes, champions and chucklers on the television- or reading about them in books- to go in search of trouble in the often horrid world outside. I bet you're doing the same! Apart from which, spies don't like freezing, they prefer to come in from the cold. Whoops, better watch it or I'll have another famous author after me who wrote spy stories. Sorry Mr Cornwell (and there's a small prize for any of you down by the sea if you can tell me that writer's pen name!).

Television at this time of year can be great fun to watch and very comforting, like the best stories which always have a happy ending. I had cause on Christmas Eve to experience a rather different Christmas Eve, with my brother and some friends, German-style. Over in Deutschland, like much of Europe, they don't have quite such a long wait to open their presents, and all the excitement of unwrapping and trying out the new toys come on that most beautiful and twinkling night of the year when the little star is the baby of Bethlehem, who was and is the best present of all.

German television at Christmas is full of lovely little programmes and beautiful music and images which are a feast for the eyes while you wait for the feast for your tummy, which is the traditional Christmas Eve meal of sausage salad.

Along with the stollen and the mince pies, this was our Christmas Eve memorable munch. Matthew and I really enjoyed spending Heiligernacht, the Holy Night, with our friends and the next day we had a great nosh too with our own full English Christmas Dinner- in an Italian restaurant! Mind you, we made sure we didn't eat too much food at once: that's not good for you, of course. If you have over-eaten this Christmas, dear reader, perhsps you'd do well to take the advice of Professor Stanley Unwin:

"If you've done an overstuffy in the tumloader, finisht the job with a ladleho of brandy butter, then go all the way to the toileybox."

Well, quite, very clear advice. Almost as good as his words of gobbledegook wisdom as Chancellor of a sort-of-German place in the wonderful film of Ian Fleming's only children's book Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, which made an appearance on ITV1 yesterday.

This has been a favourite family film of mine ever since I saw it as a lad of ten during the summer holidays with my brother and the three little boys and their Mum who were our neighbours over the road, the Povalls. Chitty has since gone on to be a very succesful stage show, of course, and -yes- the car really can "fly"!

There are some sad bits and some really joyful bits in CCBB. Lots of good dancing, some nice songs and of course loads of surprises. I still remember my sadness now though at all the little boys and girls who were locked up in the dark by the awful childcatcher, far away from the joys and toys of playing outside, despite the efforts of the toymaker to help them and keep them safe. The jealous and terrible baron and his wife did not like and would not permit children in their country of Vulgaria. When I saw this bit of the film, I looked over at my best friend of the time, and wondered what he was thinking about these sad happenings.

In films and in books, you will find things to make you laugh as well as make you cry. None of us like to cry, but it's a part of life we all experience from time to time. In the Christmas story in the gospels, it may seem out of place, but important to remember that bad king Herod got rid of all the tiniest children, under two,of Bethlehem(except Jesus, who escaped to Egypt with his parents, as scripture predicted). How awful that must have been for the mothers of that time, and indeed for older borthers and sisters. We remember them still today on what is known as Holy Innocents, the 28th December.

However, crying does not last forever and believe it or not for all its horrible happenings and the wicked things people still do to each other, for many of us our stories will have a "happy ending" The inspired writers of the greatest book of all tell of it, and it has been filmed with its many different "chapters" and stories so many times, because to many people like us it contains the most important, true happenings in history. Can you tell what it is yet (where's Rolf Harris? Probably busy painting the Queen!) It has sold more copies than anything else ever printed- more even than James Bond or, indeed, than The Railway Children. Now there's a story worth seeing and reading time and time again!

I would gladly have watched The Railway Children right through, if it wasn't on at the same time I was out for my Christmas lunch. It's wonderful, full of engines of all different colours, and steam and whistles, a friendly helpful stationmaster and a kindly old gentleman, and children doing all sorts of special things for other people or saving them from disaster. Meanwhile, their very caring mother writes stories, to earn some money while their father has been sent away to jail for something he was supposed to have done wrong. Whereas in fact, he was innocent of any crime.

Does it have a happy ending? Of course it does, though in fact very few people can't cry when they see it. When you hear eldest daughter Roberta cry through the mist of the train's steam.. Well, I don't want to spoil it for you if you have never seen the film, but have your tissues ready.

I've loved writing ever since I was a little boy. Indeed, I used to produce a small magazine which I'd sell to my schoolchums for three old pennies, called Hey Presto! Perhaps I ought to give that as a new title for this blog, seeing as I'm not the first to bag the title Anyway... But it's not the title that matters, it's what you write in the stories that you write that you inform, entertain, intrigue and please your readers. I hope you've enjoyed reading this little story about a little part of my life, and whether you're large or small yourself, why not get writing?

Whatever you write though, oh best beloved, remember that the greatest happy ending has yet to come, and that will be in real life for us all. It will be "Just So", to borrow the title of some wonderful little stories written by Rudyard Kipling for his children about how things came to be the way they are. The best selling book of all time still remains The Holy Bible, which tells the story of God's love for man and of his adventures with us, especially through his only son Jesus.

When we see Jesus, along with his father, face to face at the end of time, as the Bible tells us we surely will, then I happily expect we too will run to him and cry "Daddy, my Daddy"! Now there's the best ending of all for you to this anytime story.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow

The weather outside is not so frightful in uptown Feltham, but the snow is so delightful! At last, only two days late, the snow is falling and the seasonal atmosphere is complete, particularly when accompanied by The Muppet Christmas Movie on TV.

It's strange how seduced we are by white precipitation from on high at this time of year. Of course, it brings out the child in all of us, and my thoughts turn immediately to the winter of 63, when I were nowt but a boy of 4, building my first snowman in the garden here with my little brother. Coal from a brick bunker for his eyes and a carrot for a nose- the snowman, that is, not brother Matthew. The best thing to do with carrots, as back then I certainly wouldn't have been eating them with the Christmas dinner. Indeed, Matthew and I often hatched elaborate plans to disguise our non-eating of them, mainly "plan b" I think.

Snow gives everything it kisses with its multi-faceted flakes a seasonal makeover. When I first saw it one winter day in the sixties, I exclaimed "Oh look, Jack Frost has been round and painted all the rooves with talcum powder!" It's like the seasonal sequins on a New Year's Eve ball gown, and nothing looks more wonderful when nature in its nakedness is clothed in white glory. Somehow when it snows, the cinderella of our lives becomes the wide-eyed, anything is possible dreams of our childhoods again.

But the problem with snow is it melts. Like our dreams...?

There the analogy should stop, for as the author of a Christian book once put it "Dead Dreams Can Live". This Christmas has been for me, contrary to my expectations, one of the happiest I can remember, certainly since childhood. And yet, in my imagination I expected anything but, it being the first one spent without our dear Mum with my brother and I. And Suddenly, there is inside me a new hope that my dreams can live, that they needn't become like the deceased Snowman in Raymond Briggs' perennially magical and yet poignant tale. I feel that I have crossed over, as it were, from a winter of discontent to a new season of opportunity, and the Holy Spirit, in his divine wisdom, is showing me things about myself and my potential I had always thought could only exist in dreams.

Time will of course tell. The Holy Spirit blows where He will, like the blizzards currently engulfing parts of the South East, causing me to think today of friends in Kent who may well be snowed in for a while. I know that they were looking forward to snow, and with a two-year old and five month old baby in toe, what better festive scene could there be to finish their Christmas.

However, the romantic notions of pretty scenes become rather more like nightmares when trying to drive on ungritted rural roads. But even the stranded driver, not knowing where to turn next, knows that the snow will eventually melt and he will find his way home. God does that in our lives too, and the more of him that falls on us from on high, the better. He did it for Moses and his people with manna: he still does it today where people will trust him to turn a weary planet to a world in white. Unlike U2's visions for New Year's Day though, when that happens, everything changes.

Just Another Day?

Christmas Day is, in reality stripped of that collection of emotion, history and sentiment which make it such an adored day on the calendar, a collection of just a few short hours which every year seem to pass by quicker. No sooner have you digested the best and biggest meal of the year, than it's time to get under the blankets to sleep it off neath the wrapping of sheet and duvet as we enter Boxing Day, the holiday after Christmas in many parts of the Christian world. But the birthday of no ordinary boy means that Christmastide proper, which runs for another eleven days yet, can be no ordinary feast, so we should rightly join the celebration and keep on hurrying down to Bethlehem.

The birthday "bit" is now over for another year- at least as far as the UK is concerned. On the other hand, if you're one of my American readers or maybe even watching the ocean swell break on the shores of the Pacific as you read this on Christmas night, you are fortunate indeed to be enjoying the special feel of that evening, and pondering still perhaps like the shepherds and the wise men the mystery of it all.

Not in that poor lonely stable,
With the Oxen standing by
We shall see him,
but in Heaven
Sat at God's right hand on high
When like stars his children crowned
All in white, shall wait around

I can still hear the descant notes struggling now as if to pass through the celestial ceiling into eternity's portal, just 36 hours ago now but it could have been an eternity away. The strange way in which all time seems to roll into one at this time of the year, like wool used to knit a Christmas jumper, is part of the special magic of the season for me. Yet Mrs Cecil Frances Alexander never intended Once in Royal David's City to be a hymn just for singing at Christmas actually. Its underlying message is timeless and relevant to every day of every life as it has been for two millennia. Though you'll rarely hear it done so in church, it could actually be sung on any day of the year, and that is part of its brilliance- and the brilliance of the Christmas story.

For we're dealing with events which weave together the past, present and future of all humanity- whatever our race, colour or creed. I'm writing this in the wee small hours of a dark December day in Southern England, the world around me still but for the ticking of a Christmas present clock from many years ago and the clicking of my own chubby fingers on the keyboard. Yet somewhere on another shore, in another country even beyond the reach of Google Earth, souls who once lived and breathed as I do are celebrating for us, with us, day after day, until He comes again, making music which will still be sounding long after the last organ stop is closed on the the final chord of Christmas 2005. For they lived and died for and with their faith, just as the first Christian martyr St Stephen did back in the first century. His feast is the one we celebrate now, feeding on leftover turkey and trying, maybe, to keep the peace of Christmas Day going on in our domestic life for just another few hours before the holy atmosphere has quite dissipated. And meanwhile, some of us might actually get round to giving the little boxes of love we could not find the time or energy to open and wrap on Christmas Day!

Stephen had seen Jesus, not in Bethlehem, nor in Nazareth, but as a grown thirty-something man doing the work he was born to do.He had seen, worshipped and believed in Jesus and accepted him as his Messiah. Tragically for Stephen's earthly life, others did not share his view, and indeed mercilessly pursued him with sticks if not stones which did break bones. The names that people call us, and the impressions we so often form, do hurt us actually. Put your hope in the God of the manger and the God of the cross, however, and there is a life waiting even beyond death- which ought to cause us all to cry "Alleluia" as loudly as the master Handel did with his own timeless musical celebration of The Messiah.

I guess looked at with the eyes of faith and a long view like a GPS gazing on earth, Christmas might also be called Crossmas. Like all of us, actually, Jesus was destined to give up his last one day all too soon- but he gave his all so that there might be life for all, in all its fulness, now and forevermore, i.e. both sides of death.

This Boxing Day will be the proper remembrance in many churches and on other shores from Africa to the islands of Asia of the death which came suddenly, unexpectedly and seemingly without merchy to numbers still impossible to count accurately, twelve months ago. The Indian ocean tsunami was a reminder of what a precious gift life is, yet wrapped in only flesh and bones which need to be protected and safe from harm.

Our Boxing Day response in 2005 might seem all too small, but it can still be given with love, whether of wallet or words. Prayer can and still does bring a relief which no human agency alone can handle, vital though this is. Stephen knew this, as he saw his wonderful vision of Jesus, sat at God's right hand on high, before his life was taken by those who knew not what they were doing, as it so often has been through the centuries in war and tragedy.

Yet beneath the horrors which the workaday world so quickly brings back to our consciousness after the dreamy romantic visions and imagery of Christmastide are gone for another year, lie the unexpected happenings, the miraculous healings, changes of heart, turn in world events and ordinary human stories, that our world still brings. It brings the heart-rending and yet heart-challenging words of forgiveness from grieving mother Gee Walker, following the conviction of her son's racist killers a few weeks before Christmas. Or the astounding grace with which the parents of devout Catholic Abigail Witchell showed to her presumed attacker who later took his own life. Several thousand more such stories happen everyday, unheralded by trumpets, unreported in the media. But they are the reason why I, and even a devout Jew called Saul, later come back to the boy born in a barn, and the man muredered on a mount, day after day. Saul's story may be for another day, but for the moment, let's just remember, indeed, that God is for life, not just for Christmas.

Last Christmas

The time has come, the Savage said, to talk of many things.
Of Christmas Trees, and times to please, of cracker jokes and kings

Christmas Eve 2005: just another number at the end of the year's date, or a reminder of the secular bard's amazed exclamation: "What a piece of work is a man!"? I'll opt for the latter. Christmas brings Christians, at least, to gaze in awe and wonder, with the mind's eye and a heart filled with love, at the piece of work which gave life to all man, lying helpless on a bed of straw.

But what of the rest? What does this ancient,beautiful,enchanting festival say about the great mass of humanity that will celebrate this next couple of days largely oblivious of events that happened twenty centuries ago, in a tiny village hitherto unknown to the rest of the world.

Perhaps, just for a moment they might pause to remember not a sentimental song which gave an answer to the office Christmas quiz, alongside all the other music of heaven which makes this season an aural treat. Maybe they might stop stuffing their face with mince pies and all the other Turkish Delights of this annual visit to epicurean paradise. They might even be prepared to give Great Aunt Agatha a peck on the cheek.

Maybe, with a little help from the media, they will remember what a fragile, tender, treasured thing is life itself. Eyes might turn from a stable in Bethlehem to a wrecked home on the shores of another place beginning with B, Banda Aceh. The "port" or "haven" where celebration was shattered with the almighty wham of a wave 363 days ago and millions of lives were shattered in a "natural" event these precious souls cannot and the world must not forget.

When the "Boxing Day Tsunami" first struck the world's airwaves, few paid much attention to its impact on a one-third world still poping the Rennies from too much rich food the day before. In our sleepy ignorance, those of us inhabiting comfortable brick-built semis were relaxing with little care for the devastation wrought on communities of men and women, and particularly children, just like ourselves. Familes that lived and loved, needed care and clothing for their bodies, occupation for their hands and emotions and thoughts for their minds.

All that was to vanish in an instant. Lives were shattered by the occurrence of events deep beneath the sight of man on this revolving glitterball we call our home. Suddenly, the dancing had to stop and humanity had to remember its own. Wallets were emptied and the richer nations of the world gave a record amount for the relief of the suffering of those caught up in the terrible suffering unfolding before our eyes. And as the world changed, in remembrance there was silence.

What connects these terrible happenings in Asia with the partying and the packaging, the rushing and the ringing, twelve months on? What brings sorry souls like you and me to our knees in worship and adoration of a tiny bundle of flesh and bones, yet with a street value of about 50 pence if seen merely as a chance collection of atoms and molecules of about as many ingredients as make up the average Christmas pudding.

It brings us back to a boy, named Emmanuel or "Jesus". It reminds us that every mistake made by man hides an opportunity, like the deceptive boxes we make up to conceal the tiny gift so carefully chosen for our loved one. It reminds us that tragedy, sorrow and grief are not the natural state of man but his fallen one. It shows us why the mixed emotions, the family rows and the misunderstood intentions even present in penguins, at least of the Pingu variety, on Christmas Eve can still bring tears to the eyes as they do to mine as I write this.

Christmas is for precious treasures too important to be hidden wrapped beneath a shimmering tree. It's for children, yes, and their wide-eyed expectation is one of the joys of this amazing time I'm looking forward to seeing in two young friends of mine later today. In the meantime there's work to be done: decorations so lately retrieved from the loft to adorn the living room, food to fill the fridge and freezer and those forgotten greetings cards to be passed on to those fondly remembered close at hand as the big day dawns closer by the minute.

Christmas is a reminder, last Christmas, and every Christmas until he comes again that God- Father, Son and Holy Spirit- is at work in our world, far busier than any one of us will be today, and far more hopeful, joyful and loving of those he made his own, by his own. Murderous hands may threaten the peace of the world, but a tiny heartbeat crowns the Prince of Peace this December night as it did when princes and potentates, shepherds and angels worshipped and adored him beyond the mists of time.

If the Victorians created our modern British celebration of Christmas, then it was an inspired Sunday school teacher of that era who, through the many experiences of adversity each year brings, was able to remind us in a hymn what it is really all about and why we NEED Christmas as much in AD 2005 as we did in AD 0. Indeed, we need it's message, coupled with its "adult" companion Easter, every day of our lives.
Let the power of a single treble voice, sounding like the needful cry of a tiny infant mentioned by the Archbishop of Westminster in his Christmas Eve Thought for the Day, fill your heart with joy this Christmas. Listen to the last verse sung by the choir triumphant, in perfect harmony,from King's college today or on the BBC website at any time this week and remember why we celebrate. Or take these words and make them your Christmas Eve aide memoire of why we do so much for just 24 hours or so of each year.

For he is our childhood's pattern,
day by day like us he grew;
he was little, weak and helpless,
tears and smiles like us he knew.
and he feeleth for our sadness,
and he shareth in our gladness.

I wish you a very Happy Christmas, and may God Bless you and those you love, now and always

Some Enchanted Evening

...you may see a stranger. Well yes, I did actually, at the office Christmas party tonight. Several strangers, all new faces to me, but familiar to others as the spouses of my colleagues, or the various supporters and associates of my charity employer. Nice to meet them all, and to chat to a few of them.

Office Christmas parties can be strange affairs, and sometimes rather tense too. You want to be open, friendly, let your hair down a bit-but there's always that danger that you drop your guard or blot your copybook in a moment of carelessness. I'm pleased to say though that, as far as I know, I did none of these things tonight, but instead had an extremely pleasant evening- much to my surprise and delight. I even earned three stars as one of the Rookies of the Year from the big chief!
Never judge a book by its cover, or an employer by its Christmas party. Beforehand, I felt a little uncertain of what to expect of my first Christmas do with my current paymasters, held as it was in our HQ in London's Mayfair- but I needn't have worried. I have to say in all honesty, that this was the best office do I had ever been to, and probably the most historic setting too! Converting the main meeting space of our building in the West End into an intimate dining setting for 34 people, different personalities but all souls (if you think this identifies the building-close, but not quite!) worked amazingly well. It was a reminder that early church buildings were indeed multi-functional spaces intended to be places of welcome and activity, as well as worship.

It was a joy to spend a December evening over turkey and talk, quizzing and fizzing-though I didn't get to grab a glass of the large bottle of champagne which had been popped especially for the occasion.

Good company and conversation are of course what make occasions like this special, though a tasty drop of the fruit of the vine is a big help too. I'm writing this perhaps still slightly enjoying the effect of about 6 glasses tonight, and glad that the Bible is happy to endorse moderate drinking- though how tragic that the consequences of excess will once again be felt by bereaved families somewhere or other this Christmas. the blameless casualties of drink-drivers. I was very grateful for public transport tonight, but the more so for Shanks' Pony, which my brother and I will be able to use on Christmas Day after our glad imbibing to celebrate the Saviour's Day at a 3 star hotel, ten minutes from home!

But there's work to be done before then, so I must to my bed, but wishing you an enjoyable time if you're about to start your workplace festivities. Take it easy, though!

Don't Hurry, Be Happy!

Now, who was it who had that minor hit with the song on which my post's title today is based? Whoever it was, the little song he wrote (which I'm singing "note by note" in my head, of course, as I write!) was a cheerful ditty in an age which seems to have lost the vital art of being happy.

It may seem that we've every reason to be unhappy with the cares of the modern world: that was some of the thinking in my meditation on Sunday. There's a lot, on the surface, to be careworn about. And of course, it's right and proper at this time of the year particularly, to be charitable in both word and deed. But that shouldn't stop us BEING happy - it's more than a feeling, it's an attitude.

The BBC have just finished an interesting, if occasionally irritating, series which, rather than place a bunch of questionable celebrities in an actual jungle took fifty "real" people from a town which from many perspectives has often been seen as one of the worst concrete jungles in Britain, Slough. Pronounce it the American way, as in the slough of despond, and you would be in the good company of Betjeman and Brent- David of that fictional ilk from The Office (set in the Berkshire town) whose attempts at worktime bonhommie showed him for the plonker he was and in so doing made a comic creation sure to make anyone happy who's ever endured the 9 to 5 with the laughter of recognition.

Finding happiness at work today though is a hard task for many, and in many other aspects of life people seem less happy than they once were. The proviso of Making Slough Happy was to take a group of fifty volunteers and take them through a programme of various approaches to do just that with this multi-cultural melange of a community of commuters and retirees, students and workers on the massive Slough Trading Estate. The show's assortment of various social scientist and happiness specialists had a brave task on their hands to cheer the community and at the same time not send the viewers off to sleep like one of the town's most famous products, Horlicks.

Happily, and surprisingly, they did it! One of the not so surprising revelations of the show, is how therapeutic singing can be. I've inherited my dear Mum's love of a good warble, and the numerous opportunities for communal carol singing in the next three weeks are surely one of the happiest harmonies of the festive season. But why does nobody whistle these days? The show didn't bring this out, but it's an interesting example of another lost art. Disney's heirs may be singing all the way to the bank today as the world premiere of The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe hits the movie screens, but another snow white heroine of decades before, popular as ever, surely had the right idea when she enjoined her workers of reduced stature to Whistle While You Work.

At which point, I guess I ought to put my tongue to my teeth and set the kettle on its stand for another day at my particular office- a long one today with an evening lecture to be served tonight. But even kettles no longer whistle! Nevertheless, the words of a far greater teacher than any psycho-babblers and academics who attempt to tell us what ought to be obvious are music to my ears. Jesus Christ knew what it was to be happy even in a life which was to end so tragically- because he knew the Lord who made us all to enjoy him forever and thus, "be happy". Except he used another word for it, and his suggestions seemed more unlikely than anything Making Slough Happy could come up with, but remain as true as ever. You'll find his suggestions for happiness in chapter 6 of Matthew's gospel: they're properly known as the Beatitudes or, if you will the Be- Attitudes. But most people call it the sermon on the mount.

In knowing him is true contentment, and how to be happy!

A December Meditation

On this second Sunday in Advent, here's the meditation I intend to use at the office prayer meeting tomorrow:

December again, all reddy
Oh yes it is, the year’s behind
And winter brings a pantomime
To the season of myths and mellow tackiness.
Red indeed is colour of the month
-from Aids Day ribbon to party bow, the year ends up
in heaving pillar box and cheery cup
While one ruddy fellow brings festive goodies
one silent night, to tots with teddies.

So why, so often, do I feel blue
Like Oxford Street lights, while waiting for you?
Is it because, I ask myself,
The message is lost
In the indulgence and wealth
Or is it because, while wishing good cheer
Nothing changes, from year to year.
As African children are forced to fight
For some twisted cause their elders think right

And workaday journeys end up in death
For innocent souls in their carriages beneath
And family upon family, every day, faces grief

So can we have Christmas, with minds so often green,
While news cameras show, an ever more evil scene
Can we believe, like kids seeking Santa
That you’re the real thing- not Coke, nor Fanta

Oh yes we can, we know, it’s true
That still there is hope- but only through you.
“Prepare ye the way of the Lord” said John
announcing your Advent, the boy-king now grown
Brings life in its fullness to those who would hear
A gospel of love- not message of fear

We celebrate Christmas, and life lived more fully
Since you o’erpowered Satan, the beast and the bully
For Christmas is red, as remembrance’s poppy
Since life comes from blood, from your crucified body.

A helpless baby came into our world
And Heaven’s banner for all unfurled
Promising new life through a name we can trust
Though ashes breed ashes, and dust turns to dust
So your birth is the reason, your rising our dawn
For white-lit ovation, of Jesus that morn
The Word was made flesh, beheld for a time
That we might find reason, find purpose, find rhyme
This Advent, Lord Jesus, please set us apart
To find in your coming, true place in our hearts.

Amen

December All reddy

The last month of the year with us, and Advent Calendars- if you can find them still called that rather than the hideous secular attempt at being politically correct with "Countdown Calendars"- would have been eagerly opened in many homes this morning by the young and not so young.

It's funny, over the years I must have collected umpteen Advent Calendars myself with the best of intentions, which usually ended up being entwined in a mad rush of paper door opening a few days before the celebration, rather than each morning as should be the case. This only demonstrates what a horrendously disorganised soul I am much of the time, or rather because of time-there's rarely enough of it to fit in all the things I'd like to do, let alone need to do! If I have a prayer for one weakness in my make-up I'd like to overcome, it's surely this, coupled with my untidiness I guess.

However, I do know the proper time and place for prayer and the preparations for Christmas in just 25 days time. I've come down from town, just for the night, once again, principally to help support the Prayer and Praise evening at the church I attended here while my main home was in Eastbourne. It was a good time of prayer, but that shouldn't be the end of it, and now I guess I really ought to take a look at my advent devotional before I hit the sack ready for an early start tomorrow.

My employer has a half-day of prayer once a quarter, which in my short time with the organisation I've found a very pleasing and fulfilling experience. This is in addition to the daily ten minutes of prayer which I'm always rather sad to miss if transport delays mean I'm not in the office before 9. It's a nice touch which I wish a few more Christian organisations could find time for in their working day. The peace and setting of a historic building helps, of course, but it's the presence of the one this season really prepares us for that gives these precious interludes in the day such meaning.

Having said that, I feel a bit daunted about being asked to write and read a meditation at our next half day on Monday. With no particular theme prescribed, I nevertheless feel that Advent is where my heart is naturally at spiritually at present and so I must get my thinking cap on for what to write. Meanwhile, there's a clue to one of the ideas I've had in the title of this posting.

Link from this page today takes you to the newly-launched blog of Brian Draper who I've featured on this blogspot before. Brian's not just a gifted writer but knows a good photograph when he sees one too. Check out his latest offerings by clicking on "December All Reddy" (my title for this, not his!) above, and bookmark it now!

But, the Magic Roundabout of time and Eastbourne tide wait for no man. It's time for me to go to sleep to the accompaniment of the wind and the not so far off waves outside my maritime bolthole. Time for bed, said Zebedee.

Underneath the Larches

Well, OK, it wasn't actually the arborial species made famous by Monty Python under which I consumed my lunchtime eats in Cavendish Square today- there it's mainly pollution-beating London Planes, actually- but what's wrong with a little artistic licence in order to pay homage to two of the most popular entertainers of those dark days of the Second World War when spirits most needed a lift? Flanagan and Allan, underneath the arches of London's many railways or wooing the audiences at the Palladium caught the eternal need of the human spirit to see a brighter hope and to revel in the comforting little things of life in dark times.

I'm not sure that their ilk exist in today's society. Maybe we need more of that kind of homespun, cheery sound again as a world made dark not so much by war but by terror tries to let normal life go on, just as much as beleagured Londoners did during the toughest times of the blitz.

Today is Armistice Day, the enduring reminder of the time and date in 1918 when the guns fell silent on the Western Front and other theatres of war, in the most bloody and meaningless mass atrocity ever to assault humankind. It is still hard to take in the magnitude of millions of promising young lives, snatched from us in an instant through a conflict most folk had forgotten the "reason" for by the time it came to an end. If indeed it ever did have a reason. All that World War I proved was that mankind does not often learn the lessons of history, for it is destined to make the same,horrific mistakes all over again, albeit in another time and/or another place.

And yet... there is hope today, in the ironic fact that the years have not dulled the senses of a new generation like mine who had no personal experience of the horrors of either global conflict last century, but want to respect the memory and the sacrifice of those that did. We are not glorifying war, far from it, but recognising that these were humans too, with feelings,families and fears. These were barely more than boys out of school, called to do a nation's dirty work on the bloody field of pre-nuclear conflict. I shall never forget how deeply moved and touched I was by the War Poets module of my A'level English course back in the 1970s, when there were far more old comrades around from the First World War than there are now. And yet, I never knew until last year that I had lost a great uncle to this senseless collective slaughter near the fields of Flanders, where poppies still grow today and remind us with their scarlet petals of the blood shed there and the bodies which are indeed buried in the corner of a foreign field which is forever England- or Kent, or Middlesex, or Surrey- whichever the regiment these poor, hapless souls gave their lives with.

This morning at 11.00, I stood with four colleagues, only one of whom is old enough to remember the Second World War, and along with much of the nation observed the restored Armistice Day silence, which has become a much needed pause in our national lives these last few years. For much of this week, I have been remembering and pondering, thinking not just of my own losses but those of others, and I was deeply moved too by the very thoughtful piece contributed this week by the London Institute for Contemporary Christianity's Nick Spencer. Find it at www.licc.org.uk/culture. Delve deep enough indeed through the links on that page, and you'll find another familiar name, but modesty forbids me saying more here.

At the end of our silence, I read out Lawrence Binyon's ever-familiar but never failing words of homage and remembrance:

At the going down of the sun, and in the morning:

We will remember them.

Amen.

England Expects That Every Man Will Do His Tea

Ah, that's better! A nice hot cup of Earl Grey at 3.10 on the last Sunday afternoon of British Summertime, after a satisfying siesta. What better way to pass the Lord's day, I ask myself?

There's a sacredness about this time of the week like no other, I find, equalled perhaps only by the cosiness of Sunday night, when it's become domestic practice for my brother and I to have our main Sunday meal settled in front of the telly watching Hertbeat or some similarly familiar but undemanding fare. The meal, meanwhile, is the best one of the week. With apologies to my veggie friends, tonight it will be the roast beef of Old England, doubtless with all the trimmings and washed down with a glass or three of a decent red. I used to be rather partial to a nice Corbieres after an early duty-free excursion introduced it to my palate, but haven't had this particular wine for a while so tonight will be the chance to return to an old friend in a glass.

MEANTIME IN GREENWICH

Trafalgar 200 week brought for me a much-needed break from the stresses, strains and mistakes of my labour which have been giving me some grief of late and are still causing me worry on a Sunday afternoon when as I said above, my thoughts are normally far from my workaday woes. However, this is not the place to go into them.
I have been careful in these blog postings not to name my employer although there is an early clue for those that want to go looking for it. Be a code breaker if you like, and if you're a new reader of this blogspot interested enough to read more of these thoughts, see if you'd agree with the final school report comment of one English teacher of mine which has remained with me, yet inspired me, through close on three decades of adult life:
"Mark could do very well, if he tried. He remains an enigma".

Quite possibly I am, still, Mr Duggan-but cracking the enigma code was a vital contribution to the winning of the Second World War! I thought about those words again as I passed through Bletchley earlier this week on my first trip on the finest ship of the rails of Richard Branson's fleet, the Virgin Pendolino. My destination was Manchester, that hub of all that was both good and bad about the industrial revolution just beginning as Nelson took to sea.
Ever since the autumn reunion retreats I'd hitherto enjoyed in Wiltshire with my ccompanions from a 1990 Holy Land pilgrimage came to an end, I'd been at a bit of a loss of how to fill this too long a period between the summer holidays and Christmas with an alternative way of re-charging my batteries before the dark evenings draw in and November nothingness takes hold of the soul with it's depressing greyness for another thirty days.
Step forward then the North-West of England with all its delights, from the cosmopolitan metromix which is modern Manchester, to the awe-inspiring serenity and natural, timeless beauty of the English Lake District. Yes, the Lord is my shepherd, and he leads me beside still waters [where] he refreshes my soul indeed, but from time to time he uses places and people to do it. This week, the comfort and counsel of treasured and trusted friends in the North were just what the doctor would have ordered, had he seen me- and indeed did when I was suffering from stress in an earlier period of worry about this time of the year.

No Lake District this year, though after honing my 'brand awareness 'and taking in the beers and other tangible delights of Greater Manchester, I also managed to fill up on a spot of spiritual refreshment beside two very different bodies of water this week. Thursday saw me in Disley, a pleasant village in the High Peak area of England's first national park, marred only by the peace-challenging artery which is the A6 trunk road between Manchester and the historic spa town of Buxton (where I must go some day). The still waters through here include the Peak Forest canal, a lovely discovery for me where I sat down on the banks where horses once pulled the cargoes of industry and brought my own burdens before the Lord. It could have been a million miles from that other metropolis I currently have to commute to five days a week and my soul was in another realm far beyond the affairs of men.

Friday brought my departure from Manchester, and a thoroughly enjoyable and impressively prompt journey back down South on another Pendolino, aurally punctuated by one of the best episodes of Hitch-Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy courtesy of the on-train audio system and a spot of rolling radio. More on the permanent way anon, although my own permanent way never leaves the rails, alleluia!

En route to my "must be there" destination on Trafalgar Day itself, I had my dose of enduring the misery line, much beleaguered this last month due to the failings of the fiasco which is the Private Public Partnership [sic] on the London Underground Northern Line. At Bank, I was glad to decamp onto an altogether lighter railway for my first journey on the recent extension of the Docklands Light Railway south of the river down to the home of time and an afternoon in Greenwich.

Most of the day's big ceremonial events of course were reserved for royalty and today's great and good, so I did not even attempt to go to Portsmouth nor to buy ticket costing a Nelson's arm [ and a leg] on board the senior service's senior ship. However, Greenwich as the home of the old naval college and the world heritage sites where Nelson's body lay in state on return from battle, was the next best place to be to discover more of his heritage and toast his memory with a pint of Fuller's special brew in honour of him, Nelson's Blood. A pint of rum, to which this nickname usually applies, would have rendered me even more senseless than some might say I normally am!
Before the beer though came the sightseeing, and quite apart from another due tea in the cafe, surrounded by naval memorabilia and the white ensign, given dispensation to be flown everywhere this weekend, I had looked round the extraordinarily beautiful Hanoverian masterpiece which is the chapel of the Old Royal Naval College, now leased to Trinity College of Music.

The sound of sopranos wafted across the air as I walked across the quad to the chapel, and the sight of the gilded altarpiece which was St Paul's escape from death on Malta drew me to my knees in prayer. Having enjoyed the architectural landmarks of the temples to industry of Manchester earlier in the week, here at last was man meeting with his creator in the skill of his hand touching the everlasting arms of the one who made him. Does it say something about contemporary man that so much modern architecture owes nothing to worship of God yet everything to idolising the "triumphs" of consumerdom?

Finally, my watery celebration of Trafalgar Day told me I must go down to the sea again, so it was off to Eastbourne for the Ceylon Place house group, another beer and an overnight stay in my other home

BATTLES AND BOTTLES
It was Adnam's Broadside to end my Friday night in Eastbourne, and Shepherd Neame Spitfire with supper and Casualty back here in Feltham last night.Drinks a plenty will have been supped up and down the land this weekend in honour of the man of the moment, Horatio, Viscount Nelson. Let's not just lump him in with the lesser league of Lords, please: the title he died with acknowledges not just Britain's but many navies' recognition of him even two centuries later as the C in C, fleet to excel them all. Even a pacifist like me is moved by the victory he secured for liberty from Napoleonic oppression off Cape Cadiz in 1805, but the more so by the man's humanity and humility which have been much trumpeted in this bi-centenary year of the Battle of Trafalgar.
A cossetted 21st century man like me could have no cognisance of the dreadful conditions of service life of 200 years ago, were it not for the history books and the museums and now the websites which tell so much of the life of the sailor or indeed the ordinary toiler of that time. In an age of cruel discipline and marked disregard for the failings and frailty of man, Horatio Nelson gave those who served under him -including a few closet women, actually!- a reason for respect far removed from the savagery of so many of his contemporaries, yet which even in another millennia is the lot of so many souls in other conflicts, other countries, other cultures.
The Battle of Trafalgar may have been our triumph, and France and Spain may now be our allies in a very different Europe to that of the early nineteenth century. But let nobody pretend the battle for the human soul has yet been won, although victory is actually foretold. Evil stalks in so many guises in contemporary society throughout the world, and modern media bring it so close to our attention that nobody can turn a blind eye to it, even if it be the blindness of convenience which caused Nelson to put a telescope to his sightless eye to ignore the signalled orders of his superior and thus win the Battle of Copenhagen.

Wretched events no better than the ruthless ones witnessed by our forebears are so close at hand on both land and sea so often in this infant century. Let nobody pretend that the liberty Nelson toiled for or the Victory he won has brought us freedom from the prison of our own selfishness, pride and apathy. Great though he may have been, seeing the battle won before his death and ever-lauded for his heroism, Horatio Nelson's sacrifice aboard a vessel of oak is as nothing compared to what was given up for all humankind by one man's broken, pierced, blood-spattered arms on a cross of crude wood twenty centuries ago.

So what a sad homage today is then to Britain's greatest naval hero, the son of a country parson and a devout Christian all his days yet in his private life so obviously a flawed human, On this Lord's day, fewer folk will have gathered in churches and houses of prayer to honour the man who is the Son of God, than will have huddled in pubs and ships with a gill or two in these last days to honour a much lesser man. Would the Nelson whose prayer on the eve of battle has been described by some as a masterpiece of English prose, have fought so valiantly had he known what a sorrowful, sacreligious nation we would become:

May the great God whom I worship Grant to my Country and for the benefit of Europe in General a great and Glorious Victory, and may no misconduct in any one tarnish it, and May humanity after Victory be the predominant feature in the British fleet. For. myself individually I commit my Life to Him who made me, and may his blessing light upon my endeavours for serving my Country faithfully, to Him I resign myself and the just cause which is entrusted to me to Defence - Amen Amen Amen

These were the words quoted just two days ago over the spot where the great man fell on his flagship, and doubtless repeated countless times over this weekend in the numerous ceremonies and special events to mark this momentous moment in history. Yet I'll wager a ha'porth of tar that Horatio Nelson would put aside all his great victories, all the glory of the moment and the defeat of an alien foe, to see the land that he loved come back to the Lord of all and the Saviour of the world. To that fact and that redemption indeed, sealed in blood and born again in the victory of the Resurrection, I cry this Sunday AMEN, AMEN, AMEN- so be it! Amazing Grace indeed: time for another tea and Songs of Praise counting down the nation's favourite hymns.

Samuel Peeps

Do you like being like Mr Nosey when you read books? Do you feel like you want to spy on the author's life and see who means the most to him, or perhaps her? Some writers are very secretive, others say a great deal about themselves. Guess which type I am? What type are you. A bit of both, maybe?

When I buy a new book, often the first bit I turn to is what used to be called in the olden days the "frontispiece". That's the bit where the writer or their publisher has sometimes got someone else famous to say nice things about the new book- especially useful if nobody has ever heard of the writer before and they want to sell more books: I suppose even Roald Dahl had to start somewhere, after all! It's also often called a preface or a foreword.

However, that's not the bit at the front that arouses my curiosity the most: it's the "dedication" or "acknowledgments" that I like to look at. You don't have to include it in a book of course, but doing so says more about you than good reviews ever can. It's where the writer names all those people who have helped them with the book, taught them important lessons in their life,given them advice or maybe just amused them. But just as often too, the Acknowledgments are where you will find out about really special people who the author just wants to mention because they love them!

Thinking all this through today on a historic day in British history, I thought it was high time I dedicated one of these blogs to somebody. Who will it be, you ask yourself? Will it be my favourite teacher? Mr Weir's probably long gone, but who would be yours? Or a relative- my grandma perhaps, who used to love reading my stories of what I had been up to on holiday? I suppose you could even dedicate your blog to a favourite pet- but we've had so many lovely cats, it would be unfair to single any one of them out.

So perhaps I should choose a figure from history. Now, who could that possibly be today, Friday 21st October AD 2005(only just as it's nearly over!)? How about a certain Admiral Horatio, Lord Nelson? Surely on the 200th anniversary of the Battle of Trafalgar that might be an appropriate choice, and what a day it's been for followers of England's greatest man of the sea and the hero of the moment those two centuries ago.

I wish I could even dedicate these words to my secretary ( I wish I had one!) or to other people who have helped me as I've written these little bits and pieces over the last seventeen months or so. But apart from the encouraging comments that my friends do make, which boost my confidence no end, there aren't any little helpers out there, or even any much bigger ones. I haven't got any gnomes who come in and eat all the brain waves inside my head every night (do you think that might be what dreams are all about really?) and then scamper around like little ants on my computer keys so that you too can feed on my thoughts, for what they're worth.

If I did have Marky's little helpers like this, then maybe you'd have seen a bit more writing from me at this web address over the last month; so sorry, dear reader, if you've been disappointed that the Anyway cupboard's been bare for a while. Truth is I have either been too tired or too weighed down by other cares to say very much in my blogs lately, though I have been very keen to.

However, I couldn't let this auspicious (love the word, but still not sure exactly what it means, are you?) time pass without dedicating this latest posting to one special little boy out there in computer land who had his own great celebration today. I'm going to be Top Secret like the best special agent and not tell you all his name. But he must have a mention, because today remembers the day he battled his way out of his Mummy's tummy back in the late nineties, so now he's celebrating his EIGHTH birthday no less, and days don't come much more special than birthdays, do they!

I was very happy to have a bit of an early celebration with my junior friend Sam this week, along with my (very!) old friends his Mum and Dad on a flying visit (well, by train really!) to the North West of England where he lives. He's a great little guy and such fun! The lad's getting on very well with his sums, is good to his baby brother most of the time, and he even told me some great poems about the seasons.

Mind you, I don't know whether Sam likes keeping a diary or not, like the very famous man of the same first name who wrote so much about the Great Fire of London and also worked for the Royal Navy, I discovered today while visiting a navy museum in South East London. One thing's for sure though: Sam doesn't miss a trick at all and I wonder whether when he's playing hide and seek, Samuel Peeps?

Many Happy Returns of the Day, and God Bless, little man from a rather bigger one!

Summer leaves

Now, you looked twice at the title of this posting, didn't you? Poet and painter from time immemorial have tried to capture in their respective mediums the glories of the Autumn, particularly the deciduous delight which is known in the US as the Fall and when leaves turn every shade of red, brown, amber and orange, before they, well, leave their branches and once again the perfectly-rounded cycle of nature turns.
However, that's maybe a subject for six weeks or more hence here in the South of England at least, just before the gloomy nights of November set in once daylight saving time (BST) ends. Instead, I'm focussing in this late night blog on the thoughts and emotions that the departure of the warmest, lightest season of the year brings tonight. The summer of 05 has now gone in the Northern Hemisphere; it's the Autumnal Equinox and although the mild temperatures bely it, the last season of our Northern year is with us again. It's all downhill twixt now and Christmas :-( Summer leaves, hopefully to return again in nine months time. Well, it was good while it lasted!

For my part, I've had a last gasp of summer and sea air at my "other" home here on the South Coast tonight where I came to support the poorly-attended house group I was a regular at while I was working and living here full time during the week. The downside is that means an early start tomorrow as I head back to London for the last day of the working week, but at least I'm guaranteed a seat and a snooze, noisy commuters and manic mobiles not withstanding, on the 90 minute or so journey to Victoria.

Not that I mind rising before dawn; my employer has been holding a conference all this week for 32 delegates which has really kept me on my toes and working from before 8.30 in the morning til 7.30 at night one evening, without even a lunch break. But moaning, moi? Not a bit of it: I love it, and I've been well fed too, both spiritually and literally.
Somehow, like the seasons getting into gear with the bursts of energy and change each three months brings, I've been in my element! In fact, it's been one of the most enjoyable parts of my working life since my BBC days, which seem a very long time ago now. The course finishes tomorrow, and I shall miss the delegates, every one of them. Here's to the next one in March, as Le Printemps puts a spring in our step and a not so young man's fancy once again turns to hard work! God hallows the seasons: it's Harvest Festival in many churches including my Feltham this weekend, and we're reminded that "Thou visitest the earth, thou crownest the years with thy blessings". Amen to that!

The Dark Side of the Monday

Dawn attempts to break out over Feltham, thwarted by cloud cover and a reminder that "the summer's gone" rather than being in the meadow that the lyrics of the "Air from County Derry" so poignantly convey.
There's always a touch of the melancholy about this time, and yet the Summer won't actually be gone for another nine days yet when the autumnal equinox beckons the start of the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. But the great yellow presence in the sky has been struggling to put his hat on these last couple of days- and in so doing may just have been the salvation of English cricket!

The final test against the old adversaries from Oz, where Spring's about to begin, has put a spring in the step of eleven good men and true who may today fly from the wicket as phoenixes, and seal their place in the annals of cricket as the side that freed the ashes from the prison of Australian stewardship for the first time in sixteen years. With England in to bat on their second innings, the run race is on to meet their target and show themselves invincible.

Can they do it? Can those feet in modern time walk across Vauxhall's outfield green, up to the wicket and shine forth upon the crowded bails? Well, cricket's the sport of the clergy- the late great David Shepherd, former England cricketer and later Bishop of Liverpool- proved that. But The Independent, going against the trend of harmless jingoism which has filled the press and inspired the masses as eyes focus on the Brit Oval these last few days reminds us that God is impartial: he sends his sun on the righteous as well as the unrighteous.

Whatever side wins, this has been widely recognised as perhaps the greatest test series against the Australians ever. Even sporting simpletons like me who can't tell a silly mid off from a slip have been thrilled with every nuance these last couple of matches particularly. And Channel 4 has surpassed itself with some gripping and insightful coverage of every match. What a cruel irony it would be then if England were to snatch victory, only to find the jaws of defeat hold the false teeth of an Aussie-born media baron who is set to darken terrestrial screens to the glories of the game forever. The sky may save our side; Sky must not be allowed to steal our view.

Fire from the Madding Crowd

In England, holiday time draws to a close. Not just for the denizens of desks but for thousands of others who after the last Bank Holiday of the Summer at the beginning of this week, now face the long run downhill to Christmas.

Endings and beginnings, starts and finishes. The dawn of September can so often seem like a sad conclusion to the lazy, hazy days of Summer although I've discovered this year that I'm not the only one who feels a certain melancholy even after the passing of the longest day back in June, which seems so long ago already. Of course, strictly speaking, it's not over til the fat lady sings, or should I say until around the 21st of the month when the autumnal equinox really prepares us for the mists and mellow fruitfulness to come.
This year though, unrelated to weather or almanac, but intimately linked with mood and feeling, it seems as though the summer stealers have had a field day. The horrific events of July 7th and their consequences robbed us of some of the joyous highlights of the best season of the year, and even London's glee at securing the 2012 Olympics was violently blown apart by mindless maniacs intent on disproving that two wrongs don't make a right.

Even now, on September 2nd as pupils and students fill their backpacks with harmless pens,pencils and books ready for the return to a term of mind-planting, the merciless fools who would water seeds of hatred and maim and kill with the same innocent-looking bags are allowing their festering manifesto to find outlet again. This time it's through the posthumous release of a video supposedly recorded by one of the 7/7 suicide bombers. Foreign secretary Jack Straw is wisely treating this latest affront to deceny with the scepticism it deserves.

Meanwhile, 4000 miles across the Atlantic Ocean, the richest and most powerful nation on Earth somehow seems rendered impotent in the face of the natural disaster which was Hurricane Katrina. The scenes on the news pictures these last 24 hours almost defy belief: can this really be happening in the land of the brave and the home of the free? What freedom is it that fails to bring thousands the basic necessities of life- food and water- for days on end while the federal government gives every impression of being totally unprepared for the devastation that ensued? Hurricanes in the Gulf of Mexico are hardly unique, yet the poor souls (and many of them are economically impoverished even in good times) who are now witnessing death, devastation and utter lawlessness on streets that once rang to the music of jazz have no voice left now to sing the blues, only breath enough for tears.

But New Orleans has jazz, it also has soul. Somehow in the midst of the latest apocalyptic events to engulf a small corner of the globe, the song of hope and joy can still be heard over the clamour of anger and desperation. Music is a universal language born as much in adversity as celebration and my hope and prayer is that New Orleans and its people will rise again from the miry pit of the 2005 floods with hope and a new song and, somehow, life from death.

Death's pitiless face has put in so many appearances this week, both in actual events and in memory. In Baghdad, hundreds died not from the usual horrors of insurgent action which have become so commonplace in Iraq, but from a stampede caused by the mad effects of a vicious rumour. These were pilgrims, Sunni Muslims endeavouring to celebrate one of their most holy festivals and ending their lives in a grim jumble of bodies and limbs. Once again, the sacredness of life has been stolen by the mindless actions of a few, just as it was for hundreds of precious, innocent little ones a year ago this week in the slaughterhouse of a Beslan schoolroom. From the ecstacy of celebration came the agony of destruction. Scores of young minds untutored in the horrific excesses of the so-called human race were brutally assaulted literally and psychologically by the bloody hand of terrorism once again.

How can people ever recover from these horrors? Can any mind, let alone the gloriously inventive,imaginative, creative powerhouse of potential which is the brain of the under-18 ever live and love again when life robs them so cruelly of what should be their birthright, a normal loving home and the security of schoolroom and family?

Remarkably, because we are made in the image of God, we can and do recover from even the most unimaginable of horrors. Events like we have seen this week, this season are not the place to launch into hunts for theological answers, as if these could be found like the treasure at the end of the rainbow. They are instead the time to seek the Kingdom of Heaven, where the compass needle points to love. For everything, there is a season. A time to laugh, a time to cry. A time to weep, and a time for every purpose under Heaven. This season of awfulness will have its end. What is sown in sorrow will be reaped in joy. Man wherever he lays his head will find rest and restoration.

It was with these thoughts in mind that earlier in the week, I sought to make the most of my last leisure of the summer, or at any rate a few brief days of respite from the 9 to 5. I certainly chose one of the best weeks to have off from the daily run up to Oxford Street, as the temperature on Wednesday topped 32 Celsius, or 90 Fahrenheit in old money. My brother and I chose that day to seek our fun in the sun down in one of my favourite English counties, which some say is the most beautiful of all of them. Dorset was our destination for a day out at the annual GREAT DORSET STEAM FAIR, which Matthew has been attending for many years but I have not had the chance to get along to before now.

After facing the usual expected though relatively minor hold-ups of the South's motorway system, we got to our destination at Tarrant Hinton around lunchtime, just in time for a very welcome pint of the sponsor's brew, Badger Best. Tanglefoot, their other justly famous product, is not the stuff for a lunchtime session, tasty though it is but rather strong at 4.9 per cent alcohol. Who should we just happen to encounter in there but a contingent of our local stationary engine buffs who were spending the week there. I'd say given the fact there were over seventy thousand on site that day, the chances of that happening were almost as improbably as Matthew bumpting into our cousin and his son at the same spot a few years ago!

The Great Dorset Steam Fair is quintessentially English and all the more a tonic to a jaded mind and body for all that. It's a reminder of our ingenious past,from the nation which managed to harness the elements by combining water with the black gold of coal and oil to produce the multi-amped mobile megabeasts which are the traction engines. Or rather, the road locomotives of Burrell, Fowler and Foster et al, not a firm of office-bound solicitors but the champions of mechanical power whose finest works have been preserved or restored for a new generation to enjoy more than a century after they were first assembled.

The fair is also a reminder that we are, still, essentially a nation under the plough. As a teenager, I found it hard to understand all the prophets of doom who complained about how much land was being lost to housing and other developments. The English countryside at harvest time, at any time, is still a wondrous sight, and the fields and hedgerows of Dorset are surely among the finest of examples. I've had a soft spot for this county ever since boyhood holidays on its coastline, now a World Heritage site as the Jurassic Coast. Years later, though struggling through literary criticism was a chore I'd rather ignore, the school set texts of Far from the Madding Crowd and later Return of the Native, only re-kindled the flame of desire for this historic corner of Wessex which Thomas Hardy so immortally capture in his works.

Somehow, there is something about these places and events which is an escape from the perils and the trauma of modern life, as restorative as a pint of liquid nutriment which is the brewer's masterpiece. It's something which we do so well, and with two heritage weekends giving the chance to visit some of the country's finest homes this month, maybe there's still something to sing about in September.

The Baguettes of Wimpole Street

Alright, I know it's a terrible pun, but at least it makes a change from quoting or parodying song titles, doesn't it? I was beginning to think after my last posting's title that I ought to rename this blog "Name that tune...". However, Tom O'Connor's already nabbed that one so I think I'll stick to Anyway... for the time being, anyway!

Unless of course, anyone's got a better suggestions. A prize of my lunchtime fare today, a cheese and onion baguette and a fruity scone complete with jam and butter from what has to be the West End's best bargain for whoever comes up with a new title for these musings, though you'll have to come and join me to collect it. Or buy it for yourself. Believe it or not, there really is a sandwich bar called "The Barrets of Wimpole Street" about 300 metres from where I'm now sitting, but I don't choose to offer them my custom. Rather, Vita's the place around this time every weekday for a torrent of West End workers who know how to make the most of their daily bread. I'm not on commission, but I thoroughly recommend them. These mid-day mega mouthfuls really are a bargain for the meagre sum of £1.35!

THE SPIRIT IS WILLING...
I'm sorry it's been a month now since I last posted on here, but it's not been through lack of interest. I've just been either too tired or too busy to actually get down to writing, despite the creative juices eagerly lubricating my brain cells.

"Citizen journalism" as it's known has been really coming into it's own these past few weeks, especially here in the capital where the horrendous events of early summer may have passed and the city attempts normal life, but the fall out remains. My last posting pre-dated the events of 21st July, when fear power came up against the un-nerving experience of potential fire power in London once again. As if enough blameless civilians had not already felt the impact of the events of 7/7. tragically on 22nd July a young Brazilian lost his life to the momentary but fateful mis-judgment of the Met.

As a consequence, today Sir Ian Blair, Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police but no relative of that other more senior public figure, has nevertheless become equally controversial with calls for his resignation. Does this ring any bells? It certainly did for that great cleric and poet John Donne, who wrote so famously that we should not send to ask for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee. Death whether by the ballistic force of bullets fired, apparently, at the wrong man or by the sad effects of bodily illness diminishes us all. Today brings news of another sad loss to British public life, as Mo Mowlam passed away after her long, brave fight against the effects of her previous illness. Coming so soon after the loss of Robin Cook who was lost to a heart attack, it's been a summer so far of constant reminders of just what a fragile case contains the miracle which is human life.

ANGELI MINISTRAMUS

In a world which seems to be increasingly losing its sanity as well as its sanctity then, you would think that more people would be turning to religion for the answers to these great questions of life. Spiritual life and enquiry ought to be thriving right now, but the reality appears to be rather different according to today's Christian Herald. Of course, you can do anything with statistics and they are famously unreliable as a source of truth.

The Way, and the Truth, and the Life is found now, as it has been for two millennia, in the life,death and resurrection of Our Lord Jesus Christ. Because he died, we live. And because he lives, and cares for each detail of human life, even the most miniscule matters, we can have Hope in an often hopeless world.

And I know that there are angels standing guard over us. I often miss the benefits of a classical education, even if my two days at Eton College in 1975 were a help. Even with my flimsy grasp of Latin, though, I can work out that the insrciption above the stunning pair of celestial beings in a window above me right now are angels, and they are ministering to us. Even the cynical secular world has a fascination with these most prevalent of biblical figures. May they watch over you now as you return to whatever you do, and may the peace that passes all understanding keep your hearts and minds in the knowledge of our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ. Or maybe cause you to meet him, if you haven't already...

A Nightingale Wept in Berkeley Square

Regular visitors to this page may well have wondered why there has been no comment from me so far on the events of 7th July 2005, or 7/7 as has inevitably become the shorthand for referring to the horror of that day which London now so tragically has to add to its collective history.

Some may even have wondered if I was safe myself. Mercifully I am, but only by the grace of God and not being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was touching to find many of my own friends trying to find out if I was OK on the day of the atrocities, as so many thousands of other friends and family were doing at the same time, even if they were hampered by the mobile phone system going into major emergency mode and being deliberately blocked to non-priority users of the service.

What anguish flowed through the hearts and minds of not just Londoners but millions of ordinary, civilized, thinking, feeling human beings around the world that dreadful Thursday morning. A flood of tears which might even refresh the rain-starved Thames, the watery vein which flows through London's heart and gives it the symbol for the 2012 Olympic games so euphorically celebrated just 20 hours before four young men with poisoned, de-humanised minds turned our dancing into mourning.

One reason I haven't written, is because it is so difficult to know what to say. Should there be any need to say anything? Actions do speak louder than words: the actions that spoke of the real effect of this cruelly calculated act of barbaric disdain for the sanctity of human life recognised by all major religions were thousands of silent but live human bodies standing as one at 12 noon on 14/7. Taking two minutes out of a hot summer day in a great city whose heart with sorrow is torn was the most moving collective act of remembrance I have ever experienced, I think.

The Eye has it!

The British gift for understatement and restrained emotion was much in evidence in the West End today. When I took my lunchtime stroll down to Regent Street, I was totally unaware that about half an hour previously, the nation's capital had been awarded that most glittering of prizes, the 2012 Olympic games. Yet look at the expressions on people's faces, or listen in to passing comments, and you'd never know. I was convinced that once again we were the nearly men (and women) of the world. Only a hastily scribbled "We've Won!" across the newstand poster, where the earlier edition was still on sale, liberated me to hear this wonderful good news!

The awarding of the Olympic games to London of course offers the greatest potential the city, and indeed the nation, has had to show off to the world and to re-brand for years. The mud of Iraq and Britain's controversial involvement there still sticks. Yet seven years hence- another jubilee year, funnily enough, should her maj live to the grand old age of 87- will our nation really rise to the challenge? My hope and dream is that it will also herald a renewed spiritual passion in the UK, that the historic Christian traditions of this island can really be celebrated with renewed vigour as much as the best the human body and mind can offer in competitive sport and culture. Vivat Londinium, Christus regnet!

Where the streets have no shame

Back at work in the West End after a hectic schedule but a largely very pleasant week off. More on this no doubt in another post, because there's plenty I'd love to share. Journalists are normally stuck for stories at this time of the year, but this has to be the heaviest summer season for news we've encountered in many a decade. The week just gone had enough of them, and now there's just time for a brief pause before 6th July brings probably the most important and significant events of the year to Britain, as the G8 Grandees gather in Gleneagles and Britain's Olympian hopefuls gather in Singapore to learn tomorrow whether after all the hype, London will finally get the games for 2012.

The last days of June brought the Trafalgar 200 celebrations, with the biggest fleet ever assembled in English waters to commemorate our great man of the sea and what was billed as the biggest fireworks Britain has ever seen. Funny, there was me thinking they were going to be happening in Scotland from tomorrow as the jaw jawing starts all over again, but there you go. Meanwhile, the first weekend of July saw the thrilling climax to Wimbledon fortnight, with both the men and the women giving a thrill a minute.
Lindsay Davenport literally jumped for joy at the end of the longest ladies' singles final ever, while the unstoppable Federer Express once again de-railed poor Andy Roddick. A great shame really, as I rather like the US fall guy, and fall he did a couple of times. It certainly looks though as though the young Swiss could go on to be up there with the greats- he's certainly proving himself to be one of the most astounding talents ever seen on a grass court.

And yet I've managed to get through three paragraphs already without yet mentioning the media drowing in a Saturday Sea of Superlatives, as Live8 took place, billed as "the biggest worldwide event ever". However saintly Bob Geldof KBE may be to some, he shouldn't be called a "Sir" as an honorary knight, and neither should grown up journos who ought to know better be trumpeting a mega musical concert, however worthy, as anything other than that. The biggest worldwide event ever was clearly the creation of this terrestrial ball, and none of us had the advantage of satellite to see that, but we do have the eyes of faith to see that the only thing maybe worthy of a an even better "audience figure" is the death and resurrection of God's only son, our Lord Jesus Christ.

U2 headlined Live8, with Bono proud to sing alongside "Macca", Sir Paul McCartney, on what was apparently his first ever live performance of "Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band", hard though that is to believe. Strange to think, really, that these worldwide megablast attacks on one of the greatest evils in society owe so much to two Irishmen, viz Bob and Bono, who sound like a pair of dogs to me. For the origin of the song I allude to above, look no further than the lyrics and interesting story behind its genesis by clicking on the title above. Genesis, by the way, were one of the few ancient rock acts, it seems, who were not persuaded to reform for Live 8. Meanwhile, The Who and Pink Floyd seem to have seen no harm done to their own record sales by their show-stopping performances in Hyde Park.

Another year older!

...and deeper in debt? Sixteen Tons is a song I've always liked for some reason, and yet it has a rather cynical ring to it which doesn't reflect the the kind of guy I normally am at all, really. If you've ever wondered about the history of this song and its complete lyrics, just follow the link above. Fascinating- and there was me thinking it was a genuine old time folksong, rather than one written in 1947 for Tennessee Ernie Ford!

Sixteen tons? Now, would that be metric tons or good old imperial? Hey pal, we haven't got room for none of that Napoleonic rubbish round here with them SI units. Good old avoirdupois and pounds, feet and pints, that's the measure of this man.

"What is the guy going out about?", I hear you cry. "He's finally lost the plot!" OK, I know I go off at some rather unexpected tangents during these blogs at times but rest assured I am not going senile at the grand old age of forty-six (thank heavens they haven't metricated age yet!) which I turn today. It's just I'm thinking about work, rest and play- with preferably more of the latter than the former today.

Sixteen Tons is what I sometimes feel myself, and I've generally considered myself overweight for many years. And yet, according to the latest piece of scientific research, I'm probably better off staying the weight I am rather than trying to lose it as that can do more harm than good! According to the researchers, you see, constant dieting weakens the body- something which will decidedly not be music to the ears of the Atkins advocates and the Low Carb Lecturers or even the GI Groupies, the latest fashionable dieting craze supposedly being one that really works. Now, where have we heard that before.

Listening to and following advice can be pretty hard, because there is so much of it about and so often it seems to conflict with what you hear and read elsewhere. It often seems to make it even harder to make decisions for yourself and to make up your mind about what really matters to you in life. Hard enough for the man in the street maybe, but even more so when you really want to follow God's leading and guidance, as this MAMWAM- Middle Aged Man with a Mission- would most long to do.

Decision making is not just a problem in matters of the mass either- you are what you eat say some, but you can't reduce the wonderful complexity of the human condition to a few hundred grams -sorry, I mean a few pounds- of proteins, carbohydrates, fats and fibre, surely? The brain needs its food, but it also needs food for thought. It needs to look at all the variables, the "what ifs" and the "maybes" if it is to make sense. It needs to use that uniquely human attribute of imagination.

It certainly isn't easy at times though to combine imagination with practicality, whether you make a far-reaching decision in the heat of the moment, or whether you ponder something for days, months, weeks, years even in the hope of getting it right. Maybe dieting's a bit like that too: could someone invent a procrastinator's diet, please?

HALF-YEAR ANALYSIS
Or is it half-life analysis? Now I'm no accountant, although some of my best friends are. Most of the uni results are now out, and I recall it was around this point fifteen years ago that to my amazement I became Mark Savage, BA (Wales). A decade and a half later, I'm still a bachelor, and I'm still more of an arty (farty?) than a scientific saint. Unlike William Wales, however, aka Prince William, I've never aspired to be something in the city or even to get much involved with money in my daily working life. The realm of creativity and communication, and serving people has always been much more my forte and I've always supposed and aspired to use my skills in that realm using this wonderful tool of language we human beings both adore and abuse. In fact, I've often thought that my motto for life should be a line from one of my favourite Charles Wesley compositions which I've always thought should be the hymn of the would-be or actual writer:

My every sacred moment spend
In publishing the sinner's friend

In whimsical manner, that hymn always sounded to me like an advert for an eighteenth-century fore-runner of the Sally Army's The War Cry, though I didn't spot The Sinner's Friend on the magazine racks in WH Smith at Waterloo last Thursday. Computer Active had to suffice instead.

WELLINGTONS AND WAVES
So what was I doing in a newsagents at Britain's busiest railway terminus last week then? Trying to keep my cool in the middle of the summer's first real heat wave, that's what. Boarding a packed metal cabinet on wheels with hundreds of other human sardines in temperatures exceeding thirty degrees is not my idea of fun, indeed it seems like Midsummer Madness to me. Even with the blessed relief of the new air conditioned rolling stock which makes up the bulk of South West train's fleet now, there seems little sense in enduring such cramped conditions if you can avoid it. I'm not one of nature's natural commuters and would far rather have a fifteen minute walk to work than a fify minute combination of train and tube any day. And yet, apparently well over fifty per cent of the nation spend more than an hour on a train, tube or bus each day to get to and from work and would rather do this in pursuit of a job they enjoy than be nearer home.

Yet, last week I became both a West End boy and a commuter again, the latter for the fist time in five years. Choosing the hottest June week for years to start my new job in Central London may not have seemed a well-considered move, and I confess that for me the ideal summertime is one where the living is indeed easy and I could spend June to September every yearjust doing what I like, when I like. It must be something to do with being born in the hottest summer of the last century: I love this season, but I hate working in it! I'd far rather immerse myself in the cooling waters of azure seas and gaze on heavenly sunrises and sunsets and just contemplate the miracle of life at its finest which this month of June seems to crown for me every year.

But down comes an angel and pricks my bubble, and tells me to get on with my work- even if I have got another week off to enjoy summer leisure this week! I worked- or rather trained mainly- last week though as a favour to my new employer, because the current postholder leaves on the first of July. Thus it was I found the week of Midsummer and the time when the sun appears to stand still did at times seem to go on forever for me at work, and there were times when I thought "What have I done? I'm not a celebrity-get me out of here!"

But my angel and my friends soon bring me down to earth and encourage and advise me to hang on in there and try my new job out. And on balance, I think they are wise, unlike me at times. It's a watershed in the year- it's halfway point- and another in my life. If I so chose, I could drop everything and give up work altogether by realising my various assets- but would it make me happy? Would I really enjoy being a full-time beach boy accompanied by the sounds of summer?

Of course I wouldn't! Birthdays come and go, Summer comes to an end. The Bible writer is wise indeed when he tells us there is a season for everything. This may well be the season for flooded festivals and gooey gigs, for barbecue bashes and princely pomp- but it is just that, a season. Without an end to summer, where would be the room for the enjoyment of autumn colour, or a world in white with winter snow? God who brought order out of chaos knows our need of these things, though I've often wondered how people in the equatorial regions without proper seasons adjust. So, come next Monday morning I've to roll up my sleeves again and get working in my new role without the welcome hand-holding of another.

What God asks of us most is not that we constantly analyse everything, although of course it is important to ask sensible, intelligent questions about most situations life presents us with. My new employer offers such questions and some answers to these for Christians attempting to make sense of their faith and present it as relevant to an increasingly secular and cynical world. As such, I think I am going to enjoy working alongside them and playing my part in this- as long as I learn to cope with commuting again and somehow recognise that my own peculiar ways must seem just as strange to others as theirs do to me!

But at the same time, what God needs most is our co-operation and our simple trust. The spiritual man of the moment is good old Rocky, Cephas or Peter as Simon became and how often I feel I am just like him. It's "Petertide", when new ministers are ordained and the Methodist church holds its annual conference with plenty of analysis, talking, consideration and debate.
Peter, the man who one moment would go anywhere for his Lord and the next was denying him out of fear and self-interest hours before his best buddy died the cruellest death imaginable. It makes me weep to think how I too can be like that, and Peter's denial of Christ followed by the look in the saviour's eyes was surely the most powerful moment in Mel Gibson's masterful Passion of the Christ for me. Yet marvel of marvels, Peter became the great man of faith who began the church, equipped for works of service and healing, evangelism and teaching and so much more. What would we do without him? Perhaps the best advice on any birthday is to rejoice in the Lord always, and again I say rejoice! Summertime, and the living is Godly!

First Service, Second Service, Third Service...

Tennis has some quaint terminology. Until I began to understand it's Anglo-French derivations, I used to think that the call "deuce" was a command to the man holding the bottle to get serving the barley water at Wimbledon. (think about it...). Thirsty work, tennis, especially if the 30 degree plus temperatures of this weekend continue into the solstice on Tuesday and beyond. No, it's bound to rain- the clouds have just been gathering especially for the start of play on Centre Court.

And as for the various services, what's all that about? Like any activity with which you are unfamiliar, the esoteric rules,ways and parlance of a new pastime, job or office can seem daunting at first. Such thoughts are much on my mind today, as I enjoy a lazy Sunday afternoon before settling down to paid work again- at least for a week, but that's a story for another post- bright and early tomorrow morning. Will I be able to pick up all the new skills and information I need to learn or apply in this job? Can I format the weekly e-mails correctly? Will I get my figurework right? It's both an exciting and a daunting time as I contemplate these things, but on balance I'm looking forward to this new opportunity even if it does mean a daily commute. I'll keep you posted and tell you more about the job as the weeks go on and my confidence builds.

This morning though it was divine service for me, as I substituted on the elder's rota at Christ Church for another member who is on holiday at present. I have to admit that the elder's tasks of a Sunday morning or evening at our church are not particularly taxing, normally limited to such tasks as putting the hymn numbers up on a board and "furnishing" the lectern with water and books for the preacher, and placing cross, offering platter and bible stand on the altar. All these things are small but necessary tasks to remind us of the majesty of the one we serve and that we gather to worship.

However, this morning there was a little bit more involved. It had been designated as an elder's dedication service, partly due to me coming back into this important role in the United Free Church of Feltham. It was an opportunity for leaders and congregation together to celebrate and recognise an office which, within the United Reformed tradtion which forms one half of our bi-denominational congregation, is an "ordained" ministry. So from that point of view, I'm already wearing the dog collar some would love to see me carry as my professional badge of office. Personally, I prefer to think of whatever shirt I am wearing as including a God-collar, for Christ is for life, not just for Sunday morning. That was something we are reminded of every time we sing "O Jesus I have promised", one of the hymns this morning.

After the dedication came the response of love and remembrance which is the proper function of Holy Communion. This service always means so much to me, as I contemplate the Lord's blood shed on the cross, and his body broken for me, that all my shortcomings, weaknesses and deliberate disobedience, selfishness and plain Sin might be forgiven once and for all. Holy Communion is an important time to reverence the Lord and remember him again, every time we celebrate it, until he comes again.

Today however, I was more than mere partaker of the bread and wine. Just as Our Lord washed his disciple's feet on the night he was betrayed, as a demonstration of what true servanthood means, today it was my task to serve the bread and the wine to our minister, and then to offer the small vessels of communion wine to the congregation. This was the first time I recall doing this, or certainly the first time for many years, but it was a very humbling and worthwhile service. Who knows whether the Lord actually still wants me to try for the full-time ministry ultimately? I don't know, and neither does anyone other than The Lord himself. Certainly not the hideous example of a God-substitute to whom the Daleks were beholden in Dr Who. I do know, however, that whatever the rest of my life brings, it needs to be offered humbly and obediently in his service. Of course, my talents, skills, graces and aspirations matter- God gives us our personalities for a reason, But what matters most is not what we are given, or how much, but how we use them.

That was the underlying meaning of Jesus' parable of the talents. Today as I type this, the community of Feltham has been given another rare and special gift with the opening of a new church. As I type, the Riverside Vineyard Church are holding their first official service, a Community Opening celebration, in the former factory just yards from where I slaved over a hot exam paper thirty years ago. But Riverside are not the usurpers of the all too small community of faith in this place. Far from it. If we look at it aright, God is giving a whole new group of brothers and sisters with whom we can share the great work of serving him in this needy town. Exciting times, and I wish them well and hope to go to a service there soon. However, just not today. Three services might well have been the pattern for some believers of old and even more so for their ministers, but I need some r n'r now for an hour or so before going to the potentially poignant Memorial Service at St Dunstan's, our Anglican parish church. Along with the other recently bereaved, Matthew and I will be remembering our dear Mum, taken from us nearly three months ago now and of course never far from our thoughts. On this Father's Day, alright a commercial creation but still one when with those with paternal ties still will celebrate them, we will remember no doubt those two dear souls who served us selflessly for so long. For can there be a better act of devotion and service than parenthood? Surely not. And can there be a better memory of our dear Mum than to think of her today, as I contemplate a new job and many new opportunities. God is good, God is love, God is forever. He is for life, not just for Christmas OR midsummer.

Great Expectations

Charles Dickens is more commonly associated with Christmas and the wonderful characters of Pickwick Papers. However, we do our great novelist a dis-service if we do not recognise he's a cheery tale of Old England for all seasons. One of the Pickwick stories does, I believe, feature a cricket match, but hardly one of test match standards. Perhaps our cricketophile readers would be able to tell me which book it comes from?

The "phut" of rubber on catgut (OK, it's nylon these days but who's checking!) will be the satisfying summer sound dominating TV screens for the next two weeks as Britain once again becomes a nation of armchair or deckchair tennis fans. Once again, poor old Tim Henman- and at 30 he is starting to seem old by the standards of the youthful professional game- carries the expectations of the nation on his shoulders of our first Wimbledon Men's win for goodness knows how long. Can he do it? Who knows.

Well I expect he does, at least the Doctor of that ilk would. Think what a bookie's nightmare would be the last surviving Time Lord if he happened to pop into a Cardiff branch of Ladbroke's next time he's passing through in the Tardis. He'd have it made, knowing in advance the result of every single sporting competition for the next 200 millennia plus. With all that dosh, he might even be able to upgrade to the GL version of the Tardis, you know the one, with its plush leather interiors and built in policeman. Fat chance the law would have against the Daleks though, and even the venerable Doctor himself nearly met his match last night in the thoroughly satisfying "season finale" of the resurrected Dr Who.

The BBC had high hopes of this resurrected classic series, and they have not been disappointed. Last night saw the latest re-generation, and with the transformation of Christopher Ecclestone into David Tennant, somehow you could tell this wonderfully realised sci-fi saga was in a safe pair of hands. Do you think the Doc though might turn his sonic screwdriver to tightening up our Timbo's racket strings? Then, perhaps, he might actually stand a chance against the moving monsters of his opposition in the shape of Messrs Federer, Hewitt and others. The speed of their delivery, the lightning pace of their reactions and their phenomenal footwork seem determined to exterminate British hopes in the wonderful racket game we invented once again. But I hope I'm proved wrong...