Not with a bang, but a groan of pain a sigh of hope

Despite waking in the small hours for a second time in a row, with bedclothes and duvet drenched in sweat, with almost no pain, pulse and temperature normal, I had a fair night's sleep and felt better. Clare went out early and secured a necessary GP appointment, as promised to the doctors of the 'out of hours' service yesterday. The appointment was in good time for me attend the appointment booked at Riverside Health Surgery clinic. After examining the wound, my GP acknowledged my reasons for resisting a long wait in UHW A and E at the busiest time of year, and was happy for me to continue with the antibiotics, monitoring any change of condition, calling for an ambulance in the event of any further deterioration. She is resolved to write again to the surgeon and express concern over my condition, and ask if reassignment to another team or NHS hospital is possible. Hope against hope, maybe, but such a relief to know our local medics and nurses are on the case!

At the Riverside wound clinic I then met another of the District Nurse team, who treated me with the same expert confidence and good humour as the others. She observed that the swellings seemed to be draining well the new type of wound dressing as hope for. The GP practice nurse had observed that I was walking better too. Those with a trained eye notice things. I too think I've been walking a little easier since both the recent mini crises - but for how long?. A modest gain with all that pain, I suppose is something to be grateful for.

Clare and Owain were playing Monopoly with Jaz when I got back, and just after we'd had a big dish of soup for lunch made from carrot, swede, parsnip and beetroot, which I helped prepare with a lot of veg dicing, Jaz' step-brother Pete arrived with his wife Jodie and two year old Sam, to collect her and take her to Newbury where she'll stay over New Year until her dad and step-mother arrive back from Venice to take her back too Arizona. People visiting from the States get to see lots of people and experience lots of  parties and treats, it's such an intense time, so exhausting. Hopefully a few twelve hour nights of sleep chez nous will stand her in good stead for the days to come.

The rest of the day was spent reorganising ourselves to resume life as a two person household. Being quite tired, we gave up on the idea of seeing the New Year in and went to bed early. Later that's been a change in pattern for both of us, driven by just about coping until operation day.

Apart from the horror of British political incompetence and the continued rise of far right wing politics in a world which seems to have failed to learn  the bitter lessons of 20th century history, there were lots of good things about 2018. Time well spent in Malaga and Montreux in the first half of the year. Seeing Owain get a permanent job again and find a place of his own to rent and move into, days from now. Seeing Kath flourish with the continued success of Wriggledance Theatre. Having Rachel perform live in our own locality, for the first time in over a decade. Seeing our lovely grandchildren gently crossing the threshold from girlhood to womanhood. In the second half of the year, things my illness has overshadowed everything and narrowed our world, but introduced us to a world of wonderful caring people whose daily job is getting others well again.

NHS workers I salute you! Not quite so sure about the managing classes and medical elites, however. And in three months, the curse of brexit falls due. Or not if the whim of Parliament or even the electorate think otherwise. I hope and pray for a change of heart, mind and will on all sides.

  

Jaz comes to stay

Another visit from Emma for a dressing change this morning, then in the afternoon a twenty minute walk to the Riverside Health Clinic to check in with the team and collect a batch of wound dressings in a couple of large plastic bags without handles, quite difficult to carry. Clare rang while I was out to say that Jasmine had arrived and they were out walking, so we met at the King's Road Co-op, where we could buy a few things we needed, and buy a big 10p carrier bag to offload some of the half dozen dressing packages with obscure brand names on them which I'd been given, to carry them home.

Jaz and I met in the shop doorway and hugged each other with delight, causing a momentary traffic jam. We set out for a walk around the park, but drizzle soon became a deterrent, perhaps more for us than for Jaz, coming to us from an arid climate with its occasional dangerous torrential downpours, so we went home and helped her to settle in.

She's on the verge of adolescence and not yet had a growth spurt, still a beautiful unselfconscious  child with a lovely smile. It takes a little time to tune into her natural quick talkin' Arizona accent. How lovely to have a few days to spend time with her again. It's been a whole year for me.

Later on, we watched the third and final Royal Institution Christmas lecture. It was perfect for an hour's entertainment before an early bed. Jaz has done a lot of travelling and partying since she arrived in the UK eight hours ahead of home so a soft bed in our attic room was just the right place to lay her head.

A scientific take on being human

For the time being, although these nasty interludes are physically distressing, once stability returns, I recover and can carry on as normal after a rest, as if I'd just done a punishing workout. So, when I woke up I felt confident I could officiate at this morning's funeral, and so didn't need to ask Fr Mark to take over, as we'd agreed, just in case.The service was at Pidgeon's chapel of rest, followed by a burial in Western Cemetery. I was quite mild for the end of year at the graveside and the sun peeked through the clouds briefly, not that the grieving family would have noticed.

Another visit from District Nurse team member Emma for a dressing change. was arranged for when I returned. She said that she'd been in touch with my GP surgery to advise them of what happened Christmas night and request a referral letter to the District Nurse Team and Riverside Health Centre, to join up all the dots administratively. This makes sure I come off the emergency nursing visit list and one to the one for regular in-surgery treatment. This is a relief, as it means I'm getting checked out daily up to the operation date, to forestall any further problems, and can be treated there afterwards as well. This takes the anxiety out of waiting and coping. What more could I asked.

The children took their leave of us after lunch, leaving the house rather quiet and empty. Clare set about the task of seeing through and hanging out several loads of washing, on the outdoor line while there was daylight, and indoors, wherever she could. I feel as if I'm not pulling my weight at the moment, as I'm needing to sleep more to recover from the last minor crisis.

I watched on BBC Four this evening the second of this year's series of Royal Institution Christmas Lectures - presenting scientific subjects to audiences of school children. The Beeb has broadcasted these on TV since 1966, so I remember them from that time and have watched occasionally since. 

'Who am I?' is the subject for this year, with a mix of Genetics and Paleo-Anthropology to tell the story of human evolution, and our relationship to the apes and other animals. It was beautifully and engagingly done, playfully involving lots of children in experimental demonstrations. This year's lecturer is a biological anthropologist, Professor Alice Roberts, and tonight's guest co-presenter Professor Aoife McLysaght, from the Genetics Society. In addition to being a carefully thought out science educational programme, it was a powerful public statement about women in science.

There's been a lot of concern expressed in recently about the disparity of proportion of women in every branch of science and engineering, despite some of our best and most senior scientists now being women. What better way to attract young girls to the adventure of science than two superb role models? Both of them don't talk down to kids, have a great sense of fun, only incidentally are they stylish dressers, the opposite of geeky sartorial dullness. Scientific investigators are all too often shrouded in uniform protective clothing, telling nothing about who they really are.

Christmas down-side

As I feared, I  suffered from having sat so many hours yesterday. The pain got worse after I went to bed. From midnight until four I passed the small hours on the toilet, my pulse racing. 

It wasn't due to an excess of food or drink, nor a stomach bug, but the impact of inflammation on the vagus nerve, running in the vicinity of the perineum. It's happened with this intensity before and resembles a panic attack with added physical symptoms. It's enough to make you anxious about bringing on a stroke or a heart attack. After a couple of hours I called the GP after hours service for advice.

I had to wait for a call back from a doctor. This came around four when I was away from the phone in the bathroom. It didn't ring long enough for the answering machine to activate, and desperate for sleep, I resigned myself to just coping. The phone awakened me around eight. I had dropped off to sleep at five. The on-call doctor was helpful and reassuring, ordering a house call from a local District Nurse later in the day to assess and give some help with wound dressing.

Nurse Emma arrived at midday, and ministered to me with an expert hand and eye. The team she is part of works from Riverside Health Centre, a ten minute walk from home. In addition to a wealth of hands-on expertise, this team has state of the art wound management resources. She not only made me feel safe and comfortable, almost painlessly, but left me a kit of temporary dressings to use in case I needed to change before her next visit tomorrow afternoon. Apparently the materials now used are good for up to a day's use without needing a change. 

From Friday, I can visit a specialist clinic in nearby Riverside to get nursing attention. It means I get a regular eye on this precarious condition, right up to the operation in three weeks from now, and thereafter when even more careful attention will be required until propert healing is finally well under way.

When I told Emma I was a cleric and had worked at St John's City Parish church she said with delight, "It's our family church, I was christened there, and a couple of my kids later!" Small world. She also has a daughter with the same birthday as me. This visit restored my spirits in more than one way.

More time in bed recovering rather than out walking with the family this afternoon. I have a funeral to officiate at tomorrow, and must be fit for purpose. Emma's ministry to me helps me believe I can, rather than having to hand this back to the hard worked parish clergy at the eleventh hour. They too need rest and recuperation. 

In the evening we sat down en famille and watched another movie on Netflix 'The Grand Budapest Hotel' about which I knew nothing. It  was a sheer surprise and delight, funny, thought provoking and theatrical, as it told the story of a five star central European resort hotel through the most turbulent years of the twentieth century through the eyes of a hotel concierge. 

The script was outstandingly well written in its eccentric use of an erudite literary style for its narrator, from start to finish. This was enough to keep you laughing all the way through. It looked back to an era when conciergerie was a lifelong vocation to care for others with courtesy, loyalty, discretion and pastoral knowledge of every guest, transient and returners alike. It portrayed a secular self effacing kind of priesthood, always there, facilitating, never attracting attention. 'Among you as one who serves', and reveling the art of true service. I found it hilarious and inspirational, and it certainly made up for the horrid night preceding it.

   

The Family feasts

This morning I had a bout of acute pain, perhaps because the wound didn't drain much yesterday. As a result I didn't have the energy to return to church for the 10.00am Eucharist, in fact, I had to go back to bed after breakfast and rest to recover in time for lunch. This ruled me out of the usual group activity of cooking and laying table. I had to settle for listening to the sounds of Christmas music and happy banter in the background, and not stand around hindering the process, getting in the way.

By lunchtime the pain subsided somewhat so I was able to sit at table for our beloved banquet of the year, albeit perched uncomfortably trying to avoid pressure on my perineum. We ate and drank well (for Rhiannon that meant a pizza!), but I couldn't help noticing that everyone consumed less and rejoiced just as much, it wasn't only me who wasn't stuffing themselves with food. We're all getting older, eating habits are changing, to ensure we continue to enjoy the good health we have.

As the sun was setting we sat around the tree and exchanged presents, in a ritual presided over by Rhiannon, who also had a separate Santa ritual at daybreak with her parents upstairs. She hasn't yet grown out of this, teenage sophistication notwithstanding

After supper, we spoke to Rachel in Arizona, and watched the 2018 Netflix seasonal Santa movie together on TV , 'The Christmas Chronicles' - thanks to our children who are subscribers. We watch so little telly we couldn't justify the outlay. We invest in live performed music events instead. And so to bed at eleven, regretting having sat for so long without exercising today. I may pay for this.

 

Christmas comes

This morning I walked to our GP surgery, for another brief check on my vital signs and wound status. Owain went to Ashtons in Cardiff Market to collect the salmon Clare ordered. I went to R J Berry the Butcher's shop to collect the turkey she ordered  plus a dozen 'pigs in blankets' and streaky bacon to enhance the roasting thereof. There was a slow queue, but nobody was in a rush. On the streets I was noticed more people smiling than usual.

At three, Kath Anto and Rhiannon arrived, laden with presents, and preparations for supper began to the sound of Christmas favourite CDs of popular songs and carols. Time stands still as we relaxed with a glass of wine and caught up on each other's news. Teenage Rhiannon has developed since I saw her. She's not as quiet and introverted as was for a while, more talkative at ease among adults. Her schooling is enabling her to grow in confidence, and find her path.

The children went out visiting friends in the evening. Clare and I went to Midnight Mass at eleven. The Robin Hood pub was in the course of closing and there were some loud talking young women in street outside, plus a man who had thrown up, the fallen down and hit his head, drunk. I felt sorry for the neighbouring residents. No police in evidence to keep the peace. I'm not sure if the incident had been called in. We walked on, slightly late for St Catherine's. Clare was slowed down, impeded by an unexpected pain in her ankle joint.

St Catherine's was attended by about sixty people. Julian, who works in the local Co-op was seated behind us, wearing a santa hat and pullover. His white booted prosthetic lower left limb was decorated with a string of white Christmas lights. Mid-year he had a therapeutic amputation, and with true grit, was back at work in a wheelchair at first, and now using a walking stick to get about. I love his positivity! 

Tonight, I was glad to relax in the pew and enjoy the celebration as a plain worshipper. Emma preached thoughtfully. I was happy not to be pushing against tiredness, discomfort and low level pain, although getting home two hours after my current bedtime didn't do me any good.

  

Family festive season under way

At some time over the past two days this blog had its quarter of a millionth hit. That's eight years and eight months worth of retirement writing, in nearly two thousand three hundred posts. 

I started a separate blog to record my first long locum duty in Summer 2012, and another to record the December I spent in Sicily that year. Altogether that's another 13,800 hits. With hindsight, I regret doing that. Having that set of posts all in one place would have meant passing the quarter of a millionth mark about three months ago, but never mind. I wonder how many of those page hits turned into pages read? The diagnostics of that are too complex for me, though its nice to think that it includes a proportion of hits from all over the world!

We went to St Catherine's Parish Eucharist this morning. Peter, our newest St Padarn's ordinand on placement preached thoughtfully about Mary, at the center of today's Advent theme. Getting started as a preacher is a bit of an ordeal, but I think he was enjoying himself, and will continue to do so as his ministry develops.

Clare has spent a lot of time lately carefully preparing for Christmas, cooking preparations to reduce the workload on the big day, and decorating the tree yesterday. I haven't been a great deal of help,  with my affliction dominating life at the moment, except for cooking lunch, a few trips to the shops, and taking care of the Christmas letter and greetings, both digital and snail mail. After lunch today, she set up the crib scene in its customary kitchen window space, using the figures our children made when they were in primary school. We seem to have lost a shepherd or two over the years, and the angel is chipped, but never mind it's a small domestic treasury of happy memories.

Owain arrived in time for supper, glad to relax after a high pressure month of work. He moves house just after Epiphany and is fretting about furnishing his flat. But nothing more can be done until the New Year. At last a place of his own. He's more happy than worried.

Kath, Anto and Rhiannon arrive tomorrow, then the day after they leave, Jasmine, over from Arizona with her Dad, arrives to spend New Year with us. Unfortunately the two cousins can't meet this time around, but Uncle Owain will return next weekend after a day on call at work, to spend time with her. He's fond of his nieces. He'd make a lovely Dad himself. We live in hope of this happening one day!
  

A revealing archaeological experiment

This morning I completed work on next Thursday's funeral order of service, having written a eulogy and got it approved by the family yesterday. There's nothing more to do except relax and enjoy a family Christmas with no services to take and no sermons to write. It's the first time since 2010, the year I retired and we spent Christmas in Canada with Rachel.

I finally got around to an expedition into town to buy Clare and Christmas present this afternoon. It was very crowded and queues to pay were long, but I got for her just what I wanted.

Grand daughter Jasmine arrived last night in the UK to spend Christmas with her Dad's parents. We didn't think we'd see her this time around, as our ability is travel and bring her to Wales  is limited at the moment by my condition and Clare's poor eyesight. John, however is bring her down to stay with us over New Year, and we are delighted to have her for a few days. We'll have her to ourselves as the rest of the family, unfortunately, will leave us just before she arrives.

Tonight the last double episode of 'The Sinner' was on BBC Four, full of tragic twists and turns to the end, all of which revealed that the accused woman was utterly traumatized by being sinned against rather than being 'The Sinner' of the drama's title. It was a very thought provoking subject, and the acting was very good, even if it was harrowing and perhaps needlessly close to being pornographic on times, for my taste. Nevertheless, it retained the interest in both characters and story throughout, in a way that American crime dramas tend not to. Worth watching.

Before it there was a fascinating documentary on More Four called 'The Real Noah's Ark', based on the discovery in Iraq of an ancient cuneiform tablet containing detailed instructions for building a boat big enough to carry people and animals, similar in content to those found in the Genesis story of Noah. Biblical scholars have for the past century recognised the similarities between some of its stories and ones that are part of Babylonian ancient history. This text was used to inform the construction of a giant 13 metre diameter coracle, a large enough to hold and protect a household and its livestock in time of floods. Two meter wide coracles were made and used in early 20th century Mesapotamia, but this tradition has since died out.

The Mesapotamian river plain through which the Euphrates and Tigris rivers run has long been known to be prone to seasonal flooding, and even occasional catastrophically huge ones. Recent archaeological surveys of land have disclosed that the contemporary flood plain is smaller than it was two to three thousand years ago. Ancient Babylon was served by a network of river fed canals, and although now an arid region, was certainly subject to great floods in times past. So there is every good reason to understand that the story of Noah, whoever wrote the biblical version, was borrowed from Babylonian storytellers, and may have been taught to children in schools there at that time.

As an archaeological experiment, a giant coracle was successfully built in South India according to those ancient instructions and sailed on water, as proof of concept. Historical speculation put to the test with projects of this kind provide us with insight into the ingenuity and skill of our ancestors, and show how technically sophisticated their engineering could be without the materials and tools which industrial era people take for granted. It's a salutary lesson from history for a high-tech world.

   

The start of an era re-visited

After an unnerving time this morning coping with a sudden, unexpected and inexplicable burst of sharp pain from my new wound, I felt like I'd just survived a car crash, tingling with adrenalin and then feeling drained. This kind of pain must resemble that experienced by torture victims, though not comparable when you think of the cruelty and malice of the perpetrators. It's something I have thought about a lot recently.

After lunch I had a bereavement visit to make just a short walk from home, for a funeral two days after Christmas. It's a tough time for the family, but when we talked about the service, it was clear they were deriving much consolation from remembering the years of life shared together. It's ever a privilege to be entrusted to tell a departed husband and father's story. It's bound to be tough for them.

Later, I visited the surgery again, for another GP check on my condition. They are as troubled as I am about recent developments, and insistent on making sure that an infection doesn't creep in, even though I have started my fourth course of antibiotics. I've been booked in for another check-up on Christmas Eve. Brilliant.

There was another Lucy Worsley historical re-enactment programme on BBC Four tonight. This one re-visited the wedding of Queen Victoria and Albert, scrutinising every aspect of its planning and execution, as it was a prototype of the grand scale Royal Wedding as public event, against which all others have been measured since then. We learned about the cuisine, and the seating arrangements at the service in the Chapel Royal at St James' Palace and the banquet which followed. All al these things were apparently planned carefully by the Queen to make a series of bold defining statements to her family, entourage and subjects about the modernising reign she envisaged with Albert at her side. She was a remarkable young woman in so many respects.
   

A disappointing setback

Last night was distressingly painful as the new wound opened further as I sat updating my blog, and then discharged even more when I came to get ready for bed. I wasn't sure how to handle this sudden change and phoned NHS Direct. Shortly after midnight I was put through to a nurse practitioner who quizzed me thoroughly before reassuring me that I was doing the right things, and visit my GP as soon as I could.

I slept badly, the way you do on a dreaded long haul overnight flight, and Clare very kindly went to the surgery and secured an appointment for me. The time clashed with my arrangement to say Mass at St John's for Fr Mark. He'd delivered his set of keys yesterday evening, and at five o'clock, I had one of those 'what if?' moments and emailed him to say I wasn't sure I could make it - which turned out to be precisely correct. Clare delivered the keys back to  the Rectory after visiting the surgery, while I slowly got up and got ready to appear in person. It was raining, but I felt better for being out in the fresh air. 

Having taken note of my vital signs, she saw that the surgeon's letter of response to GPs concern expressed, offering me an appointment, was already readable on the medical network. The surgery, like me, has yet to receive a paper copy. The doctor suggested a third visit of this week to the UHW Surgical Assessment unit. I explained it would possibly entail a long waiting time when I would unless I got lucky be obliged to sit in discomfort on a hard waiting room chair. My vital signs would be recorded again, it would be explained to me yet again that emergency surgery wasn't preferable to an operation planned to deal with the complexity of the problem. In their general terms of reference, despite the pain and stress I'm coping with, it's not sufficiently life threatening enough to warrant a 'quick 'n dirty' response. I just have to keep living with this and coping.

Anyway, she was quite understanding of this and prescribed for me another course of 'deep tissue' antibiotics which seemed to make a difference last time around. The nature of the new wound makes me more at risk of infection, so this is a preventative measure, that will hopefully see me through Christmas and New Year. I was advised it'd be unwise for me to travel with Clare up to Cheltenham for this evening's Carnival Band concert, in which she is singing with a scratch choir. I've hear her practicing her parts daily for the past three months. So sad not to hear it all come together. We had an overnight hotel stay booked as well, which would have given us an opportunity to look around and do some shopping before the return journey. Kath will be there to hear the concert, but I have to languish here and try not to feel too sorry for myself.

Painful learning and Banksy strikes again

Thankfully there was only slight and intermittent rain today, so it was good to walk to St Catherine's and celebrate the midweek Eucharist with half a dozen regulars. The level of pain and discomfort I had yesterday continued all morning. It wasn't quite bad enough to prevent me from functioning, but once again, it was a challenge to remain relaxed and focused while leading worship. 

This is a fairly rare experience for me. Over the years there were odd times when I suffered chronic back pain, when I was waiting for a hernia operation, and when I ripped a cartilage in my first year of priesthood. Standing at the altar on that occasion was difficult. I remember having sit down to preach in order to concentrate on what I wanted to say. The only time in my ministry! Celebrating was tricky, but easier. 

I've been blessed with a relatively pain free life until the last six months. I don't approve of ascetic practices which induce pain for the sake of self-mortification, but realise something can be learned from living as well as possible while coping with pain within the healthy bounds of reason. I think I'm learning not to take life so much for granted at the moment, savouring and valuing everything as a consequence what I've endured so far while waiting for this operation. 

The wound continues to get worse, though thankfully it's not infected, hence the recent increased pain. I've written yet again to my GPs with an update to pass on to the surgical team. It's not in a state to heal properly until surgery has been done. I have to wait another month, so they need updating if there's to be no nasty surprises on the big day. There's little help or advice about how to manage this condition or the pain being offered by medics. One way or another however, I'll learn to cope and live as normally as I can. Funnily enough, writing about it helps keep things in perspective.

This afternoon an news item about graffiti maestro artist Banksy came on line, about his latest art work on adjacent garage walls in Taibach, Port Talbot, not far, as brother in law Anthony says, from where Richard Burton was born. You can read about it here.

It's yet another hard hitting political and social comment ironically entitled 'Season's Greetings'. A child stands out in the snow, except that it's a snow of polluting particles from rubbish burning in a skip on the wall at right angles. A dark modern take on the ancient diptych visual format. Location is significant too. According to the World Heath Organisation, air in Port Talbot is the most polluted in Britain. The steel works, the M4 and Balgan oil refinery are close. Decreased average life expectancy goes with the territory too.

Despite its daunting urban industrial environment people who live and work in the Port Talbot area are proud of belonging there, as the street theatre production of Michael Sheen's Passion Play testified back in 2011. Banksy's work is already being 'curated' by protective locals, and attracting visitors. I believe people will be delighted that the artist understands what they live with and in his own way is championing their daily concerns.

   

The risk of over depending on the Cloud

It rained all day today, so I couldn't get out for a walk and didn't much feel like it anyway, as my affliction was more painful and energy sapping than usual. I spent some time writing, and backing up data from my newer Windows 10 laptop, to prepare for a Linux Mint installation and making it into a dual booting device. I am so fed up with the the length of time it takes to reach a browser or a word processor page I want to work on, often between three and five minutes. In spite of keeping it fully updated, this continues to be the case. 

The laptop's UEFI firmware makes Linux installation a bit tricky. If this fails, I have the option to get rid of Windows 10 altogether. I have a Windows 10 desktop PC, for guests to use, or if I need to run a one of the few proprietary Windows only programs I use occasionally. For the most part, apps I need are part of Linux and accessible so much quicker. Also Linux on a PC isn't at all reliant on Cloud data storage, unless you want it to be. Sure you can set up a Windows 10 account which doesn't rely on OneDrive storage, but device registration and essential information from it are still extracted and stored on line, and not always used in ways that are easy to determine or control. 

Whilst the Cloud is a useful resource, this is the price to be paid for having your data accessible on all kinds of devices. It risks taking too exclusive a hold on my information and workflow, Windows 10 relies on a decent internet connection to work as designed, and this slows things down, to my mind. Ever since local data storage became affordable, I've kept backups to hand. It was insurance against unreliable PCs in the old days. The more reliable Cloud storage is however, the more risk there is of losing the discipline to back things up. Then, if the worst happens - total loss of internet, Cloud storage access catastrophe, ransomware etc., you lose out, especially on recent stuff you've been working on, often things you most need.

Chromebooks are even more dependent on internet access, leaving you quite limited in what can be done off-line. It is however far quicker and less insecure than any Windows set up. I'll be better off with Linux, as I can control where and how I store the data I use, and maintaining backup habits that don't rely on the Cloud. It's a matter of getting around to tackling the installation procedure I've been rehearsing and putting off for some time. 

Mysterious Wisdom

An email reminder arrived this morning to pay next year's TV license fee. I did this later in the day It'll be the last full year to pay, as in 2020, unless the government changes the regulation, the license is free. I'll be over 75. Well, I think I will have to pay for the year, and then get nine months worth refunded. A bit odd really, and so strange to think I'll be that old.

Our Christmas tree was delivered this morning. It'll stay in the shed until next weekend, when the candles on our Advent wreath are nearly finished, and the family gathers for the feast. Then the crib will come out and the tree be decorated. Meanwhile, Clare hangs cards on ribbon along the dado rail our old house is still lucky enough to have, but that's all. We enjoy the contrast of domestic Advent simplicity, and don't at all mind the Christmas trimmings appearing in other people's front rooms, in church, and in the public realm. I may hate the long hours of darkness and overcast skies, but this season of waiting for the coming of the Light, together with Passiontide, rank as my favourite times of year.

I received details this morning of a funeral Fr Mark has asked me to do on St John's day. This week I'll be covering the weekday services at St Catherine's. Despite the periodic misery of my condition, I am still fit and well enough to continue leading worship and preaching. I do so with gratitude and joyous enthusiasm. Nobody wants to suffer but mysteriously it seems to sharpen the experience of just being alive. Friday last was the feast of St John of the Cross. The Breviary reading for the day is  taken from his own commentary on the 36th verse of his 'Spiritual Canticle'. It's quite suitable for this, the seventh day before Christmas, traditionally referred to as 'O Sapientia'

'Would that we might at last understand that it is impossible to attain to the thicket of manifold riches of the wisdom of God without entering into the thicket of manifold suffering, making that its consolation and desire! And how the soul which really longs for divine wisdom first longs for suffering, that it may enter more deeply into the thicket of the cross.' 

'Thicket' is an odd word at first glance, a wild dense place of biodiversity full of surprises and almost impenetrable even untameable, or at least only with great care. It expresses the idea of inexhaustible variety to be discovered - this is 'mystery', as understood on the opposite side of the Mediterranean.

  

Sunday surprise and delight

There's a lot to be said for medication packs which print the day of the week to be taken on the foil cover of each pill. Not all prescription medicines bought in bulk offer this, as it's more costly to print this information trivium. This morning, I came to the end of one pack of blood pressure pills, then retrieved another pack from storage, and absent mindedly took a second dose after extracting the long multi-lingual information sheet to consign to the bin. 

Yes, I know, it's Sunday. I don't have trouble remembering which day of the week it is. Occasionally, I may omit the pill for the day, or maybe end up taking it twelve hours later than usual. I don't think I've ever before taken a double dose. The medication information sheet, hastily retrieved by Clare from the bin, spoke of contacting hospital emergency services if you overdose. Oh no! Not more hours waiting to be officially told I don't need pumping out. I can, after all, take my own blood pressure readings and act if it plummets catastrophically. As it is in any case, higher than the GPs consider desirable currently, I decided it's not worth the fuss.

As I was checking my blood pressure after breakfast, finding it was within the acceptable range, the doorbell rang. It was Reverend Emma's husband Nick, asking if I could cover the St Catherine's Eucharist at ten thirty. Naturally, I agreed, and immediately set about preparing a sermon. Well, I had to raid my Year C archive, and edit/update a used text. Often, Advent Three, of not Four is a Sunday when a Sunday School Nativity Play is performed in the service, instead of a sermon, so I didn't have many to choose from in files committed to the Cloud since returning to the UK in 2002. The one I adapted  for today was fifteen years ago!

Mid-Advent is a time for ordinations, and Advent 3 aka Gaudete Sunday has ministry as the theme running through it. I was delighted that the choir sang 'Gaudete, Christus natus est as their anthem of the day. We used to get a Bishop's Advent letter for today about ministry and vocations to read out or issue but the occasion for this moved, even though the Collect for the day hasn't. I can't remember where it's been relocated in the Calendar, I'd have to look it up. Fifteen years ago, reflecting on the teachings of John the Baptist from today's Gospel led me to consider not ordained ministry, but the ministry towards post millennials seeking baptism and confirmation, unfolding not only through Alpha and Cursillo programmes, but also the European New Catechumenate movement.

Later standing at the Communion rail, a couple of dozen Sunday School children came up for a blessing along with half a dozen adults who also bowed their heads for a blessing, either because they weren't confirmed or maybe not baptized. In times past, parents would quite likely stay seated at the back and send their kids up for a blessing, if they came into church at all. The Benefice has worked hard on nurturing its Messy Church and Sunday School projects, and it's lovely to see that parental participation is one of the fruits. What I preached about seems as relevant now as it was back in 2003. What else can we do I wonder, to enable these adults to engage and grow in faith?

Early evening I returned to St Catherine's for the service of Lessons and Carols by Candlelight with Sunday School Nativity tableau as part of it. There was an augmented choir, which sang a number of modern carols using poems I didn't know that caught my attention. There were over a hundred and fifty present altogether. The choir and sanctuary are decked out with potted red poinsettias as well as a Christmas tree for the festive season, making it look homely and welcoming. The children, nearly all under sevens, were charming. Baby Jesus didn't stay in the manger for long as one of the toddlers wandered us and extracted him for a cuddle, not to be easily parted with by low lying adults, keen to avoid howls of annoyance. This happened more than once. Everybody smiles. It's a live instance of 'Godly Play' after all.
   

Not the date I hoped for

I went to the GP surgery this morning to have my blood pressure checked. It was high enough to put a frown on the nurse's face. I'm not surprised, and expect this to continue until I have recovered from the operation to come. It's always lower at home. As I have plenty of time, I take a series of readings and record the average. Displayed on a chart this data has the form of a classic hockey-stick curve. The first few readings are high, then they decrease and level out. Whether I include the first few or rule them out, the average is lower than the few readings a practice nurse has time to take. 

High readings are often explained away as due to 'white coat syndrome', the stress being in a surgery. I believe it's the poor quality of medical observation which gives only an impression of a person's condition. It's amazing to think what statistical conclusions are drawn by epidemiologists on the basis of such data reports. 

Medics acknowledge that a person's blood pressure varies according to environment and activity level. The way in which it is measured is bound to be a factor, and individuals will vary in response to having an inflatable cuff on an arm, which unintentionally produces discomfort and pain which impacts on the blood pressure reported. This is why I favour taking a series of readings over a period of time, whether over a day or in succession over half an hour, and then averaging them. For me the critical issue is how cope until the operation is done, without blood pressure putting me at risk.

Today the surgical team is meeting to plan operations and mine is on the list. I called the colorectal surgery unit to find out if a date had been arranged. My concern was that if it's early next week, as I'd hoped, the appointment letter might arrive after the date. This has already happened to me once recently, a result of the bizarre mail out practice of the Local Health Board. Mail from UHW Heath goes to Llandough Hospital before it's dispatched, and sending something on a Friday may mean the letter doesn't reach the sorting office until the following Tuesday. GP surgeries can and do use SMS and email to inform patients and remind them of appointments, but not hospitals. It's crazy!

Anyway, I spoke to one of the surgical consultants' secretaries, who was able to find information on my case. A letter had been prepared for sending, which she read to me. I was shocked at first to hear that surgery had been booked for 17th July next year, and expressed my incredulity and distress. On a second reading it turned out I had misheard her. The date is 17th January, more than a month from now. Any hopes I had of having this cleared up before Christmas were dashed. I just have to keep on coping and hope that my general health doesn't deteriorate in the meanwhile.

At least I know where I stand, at last, three months after my return from Montreux.

  

Sta Lucia fiesta

I attended the Eucharist at St Catherine's yesterday morning, and afterwards was asked by Fr Mark if I could celebrate at St John's this morning, which I was glad to do. Today is St Lucy's day, which had me remembering my stay in Taormina, and the ecumenical evening celebration in the pro Cathedral, followed by a banquet of local speciality fish dishes washed down with Prosecco.

Lucy was a native of Syracusa on the south eastern coast of Sicily. The festival of her martyrdom has been celebrated there for seventeen centuries. She was the daughter of a wealthy widow, and a Christian who wanted to dedicate her life to the service of the poor. She was killed for refusing to marry a local gentleman who didn't share her faith. By inference, her inherited wealth would have been her wedding dowry, but she wanted to be free to share it with truly needy people. 

The church has in Lucy's case, as with other virgin martyrs, celebrated her purity and chastity. I'd like to think that nowadays, a feminist reading of her story is more appropriate - interpreting her impulse to retain independence and freedom of spirit to serving others, as inspired by the Gospel.

This evening we went to Russell and Jackie's pre-Christmas soirée, with about twenty other guests, many of them friends and colleagues involved with Cardiff Steiner school. As is customary, before supper, we sit together for an hour's seasonal readings, carols and reflections before lighting the candles on the Christmas tree and singing 'Silent Night'. It's a lovely occasion

This time, Clare and I jointly contributed on the theme of Sophia/Wisdom in relation the incarnation of the Word, and Fran's Sophia icon was given pride of place in the room. As we were preparing, I wrote this poem to help gather up my thoughts.

Out of the Unknown depths of pure divinity

The Logos once uttered calls space and time

to burst into being

sowing the seeds of light and substance

incohate, uncontainable,

yet yielding to Sophia’s gentle touch

ordering and blessing all things

with purpose, form and destiny.

See how all things are made, very good!

See how the child born to dwell among us

makes visible both Logos and Sophia,

becoming one of us, one with us.

The last time I wrote a poem was in June two years ago when we were on the Danube cruise. Until I checked, I didn't realise it had been quite so long.

A glimmer of hope?

I finished off editing and uploading the concert videos yesterday, despite experiencing more pain and discomfort than usual. I contacted the surgery late afternoon, and spoke to a GP, who said that if this persisted overnight, I should come and pick up a referral letter and take myself back to UHW's surgical assessment unit. There was no improvement overnight so I went to the surgery at eight and obtained the first 'book on the day' appointment available with the GP I'd spoken to, two hours later. Then, Clare drove me to the hospital, where I spent the next four hours. It was even more crowded than on Friday, and it was fortunate that the Nurse in charge and the triage nurse remembered me and were able to access my notes and re-examine me.

The upshot of this was a blood test which showed I'm still infection free, and a meeting with the colorectal surgeon I was examined by before being sent for the MRI. He told me that Friday's visit report had already been seen by the surgical team leader, and would be the subject of this Friday's operation planning meeting. He said that the condition was complex enough not to warrant making an emergency surgical intervention, as there was a risk that such a measure would not be thorough enough to prevent further recurrence of the condition. I suspected this might be the case, and it was good to hear this from a team member who had previously examined me and was familiar with all the issues. The team is making to clear their operation backlog before Christmas, so there's a modest hope of being treated before then. I may be walking wounded through this festive season, but really I can't envisage a better present than seeing an end to this nightmare.

I walked back to Tesco's, where I stopped to buy two new SD cards and some more Nero d'Avola. Clare came to meet me there, and hunt for chocolate decorations to hang on the Christmas tree. This year she's been unable to find them in other stores. It was good to get back home, have a shower, a change of clothes and eat a late lunch at teatime, before relaxing for the evening with a couple of old episodes of NCIS, running while I took phone calls from people asking how I got on.

  

Early Music videoing

We attended the Parish Eucharist at St Catherine's this morning, and then after lunch returned to church after lunch for the Fountain Choir concert in which Clare was singing. If it hadn't been for my current condition making rehearsals problematic, I would have been singing too. I made myself useful however, by taking photos with my HX50 and videoing almost all of the performance with my HX300. 

I'd intended to set the camera on a tripod and leave it to run but there were two snags, the first being lack of a blank SD card. Fortunately the card in the HX300 had enough space, despite being half full of pictures. The spare card in my wallet was full. I had forgotten to buy a replacement. Secondly the tripod adjustable platform mounting to which the camera is attached is unstable and won't rest in a horizontal position. I can't work out what's gone wrong with it but a repair or replacement is needed, so I ended up shooting each song hand held, and moving around, which actually gives more variety.

The choir sang a variety of Early Music pieces, and was joined for several of them by the Roath Recorder Consort, a quintet featuring the full range of recorders, as befits the music. I was pleased with the result of my efforts, and delighted that the concert went as well as it did. Hopefully some of my videos will find their way on to YouTube, and be used to publicise this musical collaboration on the next occasion when a joint performance is planned. 

Needless to say, I spent the evening learning yet again how to edit with Windows Movie Maker. It's July since I last needed to, making videos of Rachels' gig at the Apothecary. The laptop running it was Windows 8 and almost five years old. This program belongs to the period, and not to the era of web apps now forced upon us. As it happened, while editing there was a spell when we were without internet, but as it's a stand alone program, I could keep working, which is more than one can say about many current app offerings.

Binge watching

I slept well, perhaps a little more relaxed and at ease with myself following my afternoon in the hospital surgical assessment unit. I caught up on some writing and finished off getting the Christmas cards ready for the post box. I didn't take them out as it rained all day and I didn't want them to get wet, but I went out for a walk around Pontcanna Fields in any case, and got wet. There was a mild but strong breeze blowing as well, and the exercise invigorated me. Clare got back from Bristol just before I reached home, feeling the effects of a dodgy tummy after eating a takeaway meal with rice last night, so we didn't get around to eating together.

I caught up the fifth episode of Doctor Who on iPlayer, finding Jodie Foster's take on the role interesting to see develop through the series as far as I've got. The storylines are promising but fall down, as much of the dialogue is gobbledegook, delivered too fast. It's full of implausible ideas with a few thoughtful ones thrown in occasionally for good measure. OK, sci-fi requires suspension of disbelief to succeed in engaging and stimulating the imagination, but when it's just ridiculous and confusing, you end up wondering why you bothered to watch it. Once more the ending of the tale was rushed. Is this kids TV written with adults in mind, or adult TV with kids in mind? I believe there are generations of older fans who grew up with Dr Who, so it has as many if not more adult viewers than children, like comic superhero fantasy figures, but is it really worth the mental effort, trying to keep up with it?

Last weekend saw the start of a new American psychological crimmie called 'The Sinner' on BBC Four, while we were dining out at Stefanos. I caught up with episodes one and two tonight before watching episodes three and four. Although that meant three hours continuous watching a slow developing plot, it held my interest and attention throughout. It revealed the hidden life of an vulnerable young woman, kidnapped and drugged for sex and exposed to violence in two months of her life which she cannot remember. In a tragic incident of post- traumatic stress disorder psychosis, she kills someone and admits her guilt although she has no idea why she did it. She has however regarded herself as 'a sinner' since childhood due to an emotionally abusive childhood in a pious family with a toxic spirituality. She'd been sinned against all her life, yet felt nothing but guilt. It's a sadly familiar story, coming to light in our times for women and men from religious homes. It's quite chastening to watch.

Medical morale booster

This morning's GP visit resulted in my being sent directly to the Surgical Assessment Unit attached to UHW Heath hospital, to get the expert physical examination he agreed I needed, after waiting so long for surgery. Clare drove me there before taking the train to visit Marion over in Bristol. 

On arrival, a charming young nursing assistant from Poland took my details and checked my vital signs, then after a short wait, I was summoned by the triage nurse to tell my story, and for her to see how this checked out against my computerised medical record. She was a senior, experienced nurse, and I learned she lived in the Vale of Usk and was involved in the life her rural group of parishes. She understood, that I'm still a working cleric and need to be clear about my own condition, given the possible demand on my services over Christmas and a parish interregnum to help cover in the New Year. I think my concerned made sense to her. 

After a longer wait I met the Nurse Practitioner heading the team in partnership with whatever doctors are on surgical duty, not that I expected emergency surgery today. She had the measure of the situation, and having examined the wound and medical record, proposed an unexpected course of action. She'd already ascertained that my MRI scan was stored on the network, and rang around her contacts with friendly colleagues at work and found a Radiological Consultant who would agree to read and write the necessary referral report before the afternoon was out. Then this, along with their own report, would go to the colorectal surgical team for urgent attention Monday next.

There was nothing more to do except wait, and I was kindly offered a spare bed in a treatment room to take the pressure off my backside, where another patient was being fed on a drip before moving him to a ward. No, I was reassured, I wasn't bed blocking. I was glad of this, not least because there were two men about my age waiting to be seen, and expressing their anxiety by complaining to the nurses about the lack of duty doctors, demanding they do something about it. I would like to have taken them to task for their impropriety, but couldn't summon the energy to challenge them. It was a relief to escape from the whingeing into another room. 

I dozed for a couple of hours, occasionally answering incoming texts and emails, as the mobile and free wifi signals ebbed and flowed according to demand. I enjoyed being there listening to the comings and goings of the staff. Always busy, cheerful, easygoing, calm, quietly purposeful, no tense voices, no arguments. A real team, fulfilling its vital purpose, and make life more tolerable.

Although there was no colorectal specialist among the doctors on rotation today, one was recruited to come and give me a cursory examination, for the purpose of completing their investigation and recommendation. Then I was discharged, having been reassured that the condition is not, as I feared worsening, just chronic but stable. I am doing the right thing to manage it and prevent it getting any worse. It was so reassuring to hear this, like a weight falling from my shoulders, after coping without support, apart from sister in law Ann's advice, since the summer. Much cheered, I walked home in the rain via Tesco's to buy some more Nero d'Avola to drink over the weekend. My favourite tipple at the moment, in modest amounts.

A photo journey rediscovered

I had a dental checkup at nine forty this morning, and decided to go by car. As it was Clare's day in school, I was able to give her a lift to Llandaff North. Despite my apprehensions, the outgoing traffic was light and I was there by nine thirty, and had been seen by my appointment time. This gave me time to shop at the big new Lidl store, then drive home, and walk to St John's in time for the Mass at ten thirty. That's what I call a good start to the day.

In the afternoon, I hunted through several hard drives on which I store old data and photos, looking for the pictures I took on my study trip to Jamaica early in 1982, I digitised in 2009, not long after buying the slide scanner I still use from time to time. Once retrieved, I uploaded all 313 of them to Google Photos, and went through them, realising that contemporary web photo editing tools are a lot more capable and user friendly than the original Picasa desktop tools I used after scanning photos to my computer.

All the Ektachrome film scans I made looked too dark and over saturated. How to modify them at the time was rather hit or miss, not merely due to limitations of the tools and my experience of using them, but because now I see and remember from a different perspective, having spent so much time in Andalusia, where high contrast, rich saturated colors make the place so attractive, (not to mention the music). It was good to be able to render the photos a little closer to the way they looked in reality. They weren't scanned in the order they were taken, so now I have the task of reconstructing from memory date, time and location, titling and filing them by category, so they are not randomly presented for viewing - very much a labour of love and remembrance.

The quality of these old images is by no means as excellent as stuff I can take with any of my regular cameras bought over the past five years. You'd have to be a real craftsman with an old school film SLR to get results that good. Such intense light, high contrast photos are hard to take, for an amateur, even with a UV lens filter, which mine had then, as nowadays on my digital SLR equivalent. Cameras with Digital auto-settings have taken much of the burden from a mostly point and shoot camera user.On the Jamaica trip I used an excellent East German Praktica SLR camera, but it packed in half way through. Humidity caused the shutter to stick. Fortunately, I had a second camera - a mini Ricoh pocket camera, which shot half frame images on 35mm standard film.

Part of my Jamaica mission was to photograph the island and its schools. I decided to have all my films developed out there, to put money into the local economy, and discovered the Praktica was letting me down. Nightmare! It meant I had to retrace some of my trips and shoot some places again. It was fine, as I had a hire car, which I could afford, as I wasn't spending money on hotels, due to hospitality offered by families with parish links back in Bristol, and I found out in good time to make good the losses I identified.The little Ricoh camera delivered surprisingly good results, but sad to say, I undervalued it and can't even remember how I parted company with it. It was as simple in design as the Olympus Trip I took with me to Mongolia in 1999, but even smaller. If I'd kept it, I might still be using it occasionally with film for its remarkable results.

Now the photos are uploaded, they can be seen, albeit in fairly random order right here. Looking at them with different eyes nine years after digitizing them was quite revelatory. They awaken place memories and forgotten insights, as well as reminding me how I made use of them as an adult educational tool, after returning home.

Next, I must find and transcribe my handwritten accounts of that unique, life changing journey, made half a lifetime ago. It's time to let that see the light of day, and reflect on the differences between then and now.

Soul vitamins

Out of the house just after nine this morning, driving in heavy traffic to reach St German's in good time for the 'Class Mass', which Fr Phelim asked me to celebrate again today, while he and a group of parishioners are on pilgrimage in Rome. Since I came last, the liturgical set up has changed, with the chancel and high altar being used instead of the nave. There is enough room in the choir stalls to take thirty children and over a dozen adults, and it's a superb acoustic space for singing in, and for speaking without need for microphones. The kids responded well, sang well and it was easy to be more relaxed, as it took less effort to engage them in a space more enclosed than the vastness of the nave. It also gives the children an opportunity to see the marvellous gothic reredos and the huge Victorian stained glass window above it. I thoroughly enjoyed doing this. It was like a rejuvenating tonic. Soul vitamins, let's call it.

I've been celebrating this particular weekday service occasionally and sometimes regularly over the past seven years, since I first started helping out Fr Roy before he retired. This is the first time I can recall ever using the chancel, although I remember once using the Lady Chapel next to it with a full class of kids crammed into it. Why didn't this ever get tried before? Force of habit in using the portable nave altar? Some old taboo about not using the High Altar except on Sundays? This week Churchwarden Peter, who usually prepares for this service, and assists is in Rome with Fr Phelim, so was this a necessary fall-back arrangement, or has Fr Phelim introduced this since I was here three weeks ago? I look forward to finding out when he gets back.

When I arrived home after the service, our bathroom was a hive of activity. Yesterday, a new toilet seat bidet arrived, ordered by Clare on Monday, and she'd engaged a recommended plumber to come and install it. It's a simple design, the most basic in fact. Cold and hot water, no electrical electrical heating or remote control. As little as possible to go wrong. This will make a difference in managing my present condition, but also to both of us in the long term. We're delighted with it.

I called the administrator of the surgical team, and was told that the head colorectal surgeon on my case was not doing clinics during December or operations, because of teaching assignments. She promised, however to draw his attention to my concerns during the day, and get him to look at the scan images, which she knew would be on their record system already, then report back, end of  the working day. At ten to five, she called again and said that he had delegated reviewing my scan to a colleague, but that the team was still obliged to wait for the arrival of the radiologist's report before, deciding on any action. The letter I wrote and sent to the head surgeon first class post yesterday has yet to be received. It can take days to get from the mail room to the appropriate medical secretary, apparently. So this was not going to inform the present process. 

She did however say that I could ask my GP to refer me in extremis to the surgical assessment unit, as there is someone who's always on-call. The implication is that you have to be permanently in pain or otherwise disabled by a change in your condition to get examined. Will it be necessary to have a stroke or a heart attack or a life threatening hidden secondary infection to get seen? Living for any length of time with a chronic condition takes its toll on the immune system too, even in someone relatively fit and healthy to start with. 

Not dealing with this early enough could be much more time consuming and costly to deal with in the long run. I mentioned the possibility of seeking surgery privately, and the administrator didn't sound encouraging, any more than the practice nurse was. So many people speak of the private option as drastically cutting wait times, and being able to obtain MRI scan results on a much shorter timescale. It this true? Or marketing hype? I don't know what to think, but it looks like enquiries are becoming necessary now. Even if my GP pressed for an early surgical assessment of my case, there's no guarantee his request would fit within the criteria laid down for this by medical management. As sister in law Ann says, it's like something from a Kafka novel.

Late this evening, Channel Five screened an archaeological documentary on a mapping project at Port Royal in Jamaica, exploring the remains of the seventeenth century town, much of which sank beneath the sea in a matter of a few hours, due to an earthquake, followed by a colossal landslip and a couple of tsunami waves in succession. The port and its town was constructed on massive sand bar in Kingston Bay and this was destabilised completely when the earthquake effectively turned what seemed to be solid ground into quicksand. Port Royal has become better known in our time as the setting for the beginning of the film 'Pirates of the Caribbean'. It was once known as the wickedest city in the world for this reason.

The reason the documentary seized my attention was because I stayed in Port Royal at the Police College, the weekend I arrived in Jamaica in early 1982 on a study tour of schools funded by a grant from the Commission for Racial Equality. Norman Manley International Airport is not far away, and I was met on arrival by a brother in law of the Curate of St Agnes Bristol, who at that time was in charge of the Police College, and given hospitality for the weekend at the start of my six week tour of the island. In the programme, I recognised a few features of the location, but best of all, it showed St Peter's Parish Church Port Royal, and its Spanish silverware Communion Plate, stolen by Captain Morgan and presented to the Parish in 1662. I used this when I celebrated the 1662 Communion service in that church on my first Sunday, pondering on the ethics of using plundered plate.

Amazing to look back. I must find the journal I wrote during that trip and transcribe it, to remind me of all the places I went. Even in those days of film, I took over three hundred photos during the trip.
  

Decision time impending

Another day of waiting for news of my operation. I went to the surgery for a blood test this morning and this will inform the GP I am booked to see this Friday.  I failed to get in touch with the surgical team's administrator to whom I spoke previously both yesterday and today, to find out if there's any movement in the processing log-jam. 

Sister-in-law Ann thinks I should enquire about private surgery as inevitably at my age, fighting off infections will weaken my immune system over time. I think she is right. But as a last resort, I have written to the surgical team on my case to request a further physical examination to ascertain if my condition has worsened since the MRI scan, as this could be a problem when eventually it's my turn to be operated upon. This is increasingly my concern. 

So, I will contact the administrator tomorrow, as my letter should arrive at UHW then, to ask her to make sure it gets considered by the team at the earliest opportunity. I gathered from the person I did talk to at the UHW surgical unit, that there are almost no out-patient clinics planned for the rest of December. If waiting this long is the case, I'll be ringing up to enquire about private treatment straight after this is confirmed. It's not only a worry to me but for everyone around me also.

Meanwhile, our annual Christmas newsletter is ready for copying, then there are Christmas cards to label and envelopes to stuff before posting. That should keep me busy.

    

Christmas pops

Now Advent is under way, I'm attempting to write a brief reflection on biblical themes found in the liturgical readings. It's a while since I've done anything like this, so if all goes to plan, these should be viewable in the sidebar.

Fran came to tea this afternoon to talk about the research she's embarking upon into the theme of Agia Sofia - no, not Istanbul's fourth century landmark basilica, but the ancient feminine archetype that appears in sacred art, hellenic Jewish literature and platonic philosophy. We've both been asked to offer a brief contribution on this theme at Russell and Jacquie's pre-Christmas celebration in two weeks time. Unfortunately, Fran is away on an icon writing course that day, so this task is left in the hands of Clare and myself. This will be an interesting challenge for both of us.

This evening, we walked to the Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama for a concert of American popular songs, called 'Christmas on Broadway', performed by fifteen musical theatre students, six men and nine women, with a top notch orchestra of thirty three student musicians. Everyone gave their utmost with much energy and and enthusiasm. It was a quality performance of the highest standard of musicianship, equal to the best any American orchestra could give. 

It's no wonder the College has such a high success rate in seeing its students into employment after graduation. We had balcony seats directly facing the stage, where we benefited from a full on view of the performers. The stage on which the band and singers all performed was decorated with LED lighting columns and globes, which changed colour according to song. A sentimental, delightful and hugely enjoyable damp wintry evening.

  

A new year begins and another is remembered

We attended the Advent Sunday Parish Eucharist at St Catherine's today. In the afternoon Clare went to the German Lutheran Church concert with Royal Welsh College singers taking part at Conway Road Methodist Church, just around the corner from us. I hankered for a traditional Anglican start to Advent, and walked to the Cathedral at sunset for the Advent procession of Carols. Everything about it was beautiful and excellent - choice of music, much of it expected, but a few delightful modern surprises as well, with superb singing by the Cathedral choir. 

The nave of the Cathedral was full, though not the side aisles. Finding a seat with a good view meant walking right around the place. Texts were in English, with a little Latin, but no Welsh was used, sadly. I was a little disconcerted that the subdued 'vigil' lighting was just too dim for me to read from the hymn sheet. A sing of my age. I need much brighter light these days, and dared not resort to using my phone flashlight to see by. 

My eyes welled with tears during the opening responsory and hymn, sensing with heartfelt gratitude the continuity between this beginning of Advent liturgy, and worship in my student days, when my faith came fully alive and claimed me for priestly ministry. At the end of my first University term, I attended an Advent weekend silent retreat which opened my mind and heart in a way that has had a lasting effect on my life. Following this a month later with a Holy Week retreat with the Franciscans at Cerne Abbas completed what began at Advent.

Later, we watched the last episode of the dramatisation of Le Carre's 'Little Drummer Girl' on BBC One. It was a complex story of deception and betrayal, as spy stories are meant to be but I found the ever so stylish and authentic presentation just a little too disjointed to follow easily, cutting between sets of characters and scenarios without it being easy to figure out who was who, where they were and how the fitted in the story, despite occasional use of location titles. Good, but not really good enough to be gripping or persuade you care enough about the characters, all of whom seem to be in different ways, ruthless, cruel, manipulative and callous, on both sides of the Arab Israeli conflict. In the meanwhile, fifty years after this story was set, nothing really seems to have changed. The world continues to watch, seemingly helpless to effect any true justice and reconciliation on a scale which really matters.

An awkward evening

I didn't feel sociable enough to attend the Steiner School Christmas Fayre today, even though Clare was singing there with the Fountain choir. I went into town instead, and bought all the annual supply of Christmas cards I need to accompany our end of year newsletter. I believe this will be the fiftieth year in which I have written our annual round-robin. Such a pity I never kept hard copies, and can only account for those stored digitally, since 2002. I'll make a start on writing this tomorrow.

In the evening, we treated ourselves to supper at Stefano's, which promised musical entertainment after the meal. The food was excellent, but the singer, ostensibly with several albums to his credit was more of a working men's club entertainer, interspersing songs with attempts to tell outrageous jokes like an old school working men's club stand up comic. Everything was delivered at such a pace that much of what he said verged on the unintelligible. It spoiled an otherwise pleasant evening, as far as we were concerned. 

Daring even to hint at racist and sexist jokes or jibes contemptuous of 'political correctness' is unacceptable. To judge from the proprietor's reaction it was an embarrassment to him. I felt sorry for him, but at least it won't tarnish their reputation for good food. Entertainers are here today, gone tomorrow. It wasn't easy to gauge the reaction of other diners, to know whether others may have been as uncomfortable as we were during this performance or trying to be convivially tolerant. We left earlier than we might have done, though not as early as we both felt we should, but as we were seated rather far back from the exit, we were reluctant to expose ourselves to more embarrassment. It wasn't exactly what we were looking for to start our countdown to Christmas.