Friday, August 29, 2008

Jesus is the Way
......and not merely the Answer

I think I had a T-shirt once which proclaimed 'Jesus is the answer' - t'was back in the 70s.

Such statements could not help but provoke the response:

"Doesn't it depend what the question is?"

Tim Chesterton from Edmonton has a good piece of prose bits of which I shall inadvertently nick for a sermon.

Thursday, August 28, 2008

I am the proud (step) father of an eleven year old boy who struggled, on occasion, within the all-female environment of his local primary school and who does, from time to time, present an excess of attitude and a lack of desire to clean his room.

I was thoroughly chuffed to read an article in this morning's Times by Alice Thomson. Well done!

Things you can't plan for!

From the Telegraph

"A Ryanair jet was forced to make an emergency landing after a jar of mushroom soup leaked from an overhead locker on to a passenger, causing an allergic reaction"

Wednesday, August 27, 2008

New additions to the back garden!

In the person of three Aylsbury ducks purchased from a farm near Peebles. These, I am instructed by my wife and stepson, are never to become duck stock or confit de canard. They exist for pleasure and companionship. They have their own little house and a largish 40 litre basin which is sufficient for this breed. Their names are Poppy, Rosie and Peekotang. Don't ask!

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

The Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain
Flying off the Handel

An aging cleric reminisces

It was a difficult funeral. Shirley had taken me out for a cup of coffee after early Mass and mentioned that she was in poor health and needed to put her affairs in order. She had never written a Will and knew that she needed one. Well sir, if she didn’t up and die on us within the week - before she'd had time to arrange any of these things. Her grown children gathered to make the arrangements.

And the little old man Shirley was still officially married to but who no one had seen for twenty years – he arrived in town too and moved into Shirley’s flat. He sold her things, took the art off the walls and drove it down to a dealer, found the key to the safety deposit box and claimed the contents of that as well.

The children had told me this would happen. There was precious little they could do to prevent it. A number of items, of purely sentimental value, were simply disposed of. Which hurt. Which seemed almost like spite. When the old man showed up at the funeral or at least at the graveside, people were pretty subdued. They shifted their weight from foot to foot. They didn’t know what to say around him.

After I’d finished the words of committal and Shirley’s coffin was lowered into the ground, the old renegade husband broke the silence.

“She was a good wife” he said.

It was the wrong thing to say. Bill the funeral director and I caught this sudden movement out of the corner of our eyes as the youngest daughter – a pretty little blonde thing - launched herself across two or three relations in the direction of the old man. We stepped between them Bill and I did. I was young and Bill had good reflexes. Like many funeral directors, Bill is a solemn fellow – very prompt and very correct. But he admitted later that he’d delayed intervening just long enough for the daughter to land one good right hook.

“It was the least I could do”, said Bill, with a twinkle in his eye.