Sleepy Sunday amnesia

Having put the clocks forward early, we got to bed with midnight showing on the clocks, if not our array of digital devices. I woke up having slept only six instead of eight hours, which rather defeated the object of getting an early night, to be sure to be ready for church in good time. It wasn't anxiety as much as never being able to predict how my bowels will function, and consequently when I'll be ready for a wound dressing.

It's horrible for one's life to focus around bodily functions in this way, but it's not nearly as troublesome as it was in the last two months of last year. Anyway, we got to St Catherine's on time, and a congregation of about sixty adults and a dozen children assembled for this quarter's United Benefice Eucharist. 

Immediately afterwards I walked to St David's hospital, pleased to have the duty nurse confirm that the wound is continuing to dry out, albeit slowly. I have to be careful with it, but can move towards a lighter looser dressing in the next few days before surgery next Thursday.

After lunch I was inevitably tired and had a long siesta before taking my Sony Alpha 68 out for a walk in the afternoon sunshine. I didn't take a lot of photos, but on return was most annoyed to find that I'd forgotten to replace the SD card after yesterday's outing to Dyffryn Gardens. The downside with cameras of this type is that the hardware doesn't have an on-board photo file storage, as is the case with fixed lens digital cameras. Even if a memory chip can only store half a dozen photos, it does rescue the user from complete futility on a SD cardless expedition.

Thinking back, this has only happened to me without my noticing a couple of times over the past year. I usually carry a spare card in my wallet for an emergency, but it occurs when I don't feel the need to review a photo I've taken, and don't register the error message generated.

Along with millions of others, I watched the much anticipated first episode of 'Line of Duty', series five. It certainly fulfilled expectations. Then, although it was late, I watched an episode of 'Baptiste' on iPlayer, since my sister June enthused about it while it was broadcast live. Now I can watch all six episodes without having to wait a week between each.

This story has people trafficking and international organised crime as core themes. It's set in Amsterdam's sleazy quarter, with subtitled dialogue in French and Dutch, as well as English. It's the kind of movie I enjoy, to keep me thinking about contemporary concerns and social trends, for good and for ill.
 
TV on demand, to fit with one's cycle of busyness and boredom I find a great asset. It also means you can find out about any series before watching. There's nothing worse than wasting time on something whose promise fails to deliver. To my mind, a great deal of scheduled TV falls into this category nowadays. Even so, I'm binge watching, simply because my active options ae limited at the moment. I so look forward to being able to travel and explore different places once again, one of these days.

A medical movie and a mail muddle

Just after nine yesterday morning I had a call from the surgeon's secretary to check that I could make the next scheduled appointment for 4th April, as it had been changed from 29th April. Naturally I was utterly delighted to confirm this was a most welcome advancement. But, I hadn't received any notification of the latter appointment date, so please could I have written notification of 4th April. I was promised the letter would be in the mail first class post today. 

The last time this was said to me on a Friday, the letter arrived the following Tuesday - such is the mail-out chaos. And that letter, although promised to be mailed first class was sent second class. So I mentioned this mischievously, and put the 4th April in my diary straight away, after doing a little dance of joy around the house. It seems the necessary procedures to be performed are back on schedule for the next step at least.

At midday the snail mail arrived with a letter from the surgeon, recalling the content of the briefing she gave me when we met two weeks ago. An accompanying second letter was the appointment for 29th April now superceded! Anyway, I was pleased to share the good news when I visited the wound clinic later on.

This morning, another appointment letter arrived with the corrected date of 4th April. The secretary had been true to her word and made sure this went out with a first class stamp. Surgery this time will be in effect a maintenance procedure I believe - a change of suture and modifications to both that will make sitting much more comfortable. This has often been a painful and unpredictable problem over past weeks. Each of the wires attached to my body has attached to it to all intents and purposes, a small moveable piece of wire twisted around it to serve as a handle, though what exactly is meant to be manipulated using these devices is anybody's guess. The sutures themselves are nowhere near as hard to live with as these handles. These are due to be changed for something with lower impact. Here's hoping!

We took advantage of the warm sunny weather and clear skies to drive to Dyffryn Gardens for lunch and a walk around the grounds this afternoon. The blossom and bursting buds and early flowering plants astonish with their beauty. My photos are here.

In the evening BBC Four's Euro movie slot delivered an unusual offering from Wallonian auteurs. 'La Fille Inconnue'. It's about a young GP who has an out of hours surgery call from a young African girl in distress, but fails to answer the door. The girl, of whom nothing is known, ends up dead nearby. This distresses the GP greatly, so she starts enquiring, through her patients in the locality who the girl is. She can't bear the thought that he'd be laid to rest unknown in a paupers grave, and hunts until she succeeds, where the police aren't. 

It's not a murder but a concealed tragedy. What held my attention was its portrayal of the GP, aged between twenty-five and thirty. Thoughtful, diligent with her poor working class clientele, not presenting herself ostentatiously in any way, she's a model young professional woman, without any superficial glamour. We're given no hint about her personal faith or convictions, but her compassion and respect for people shines through - dead as well as alive. 

The movie commentariat speaks of the GP as obsessed with finding out the dead girl's name. It says more about them than it does about a character portrayed with moral fibre. An obsession is a pathological state of mind, but this character portrays wholesome human decency in her concern. It's a perverse tendency, denigrating the motives of others which don't fit easily in our world-view, and it happens when we fail to put ourselves in another's shoes, even in the case of fictional characters.

   

Waking to a dream

Another warm bright spring day to lift the spirits. I walked to St John's and celebrated the Eucharist again. It was the Parish's Mothers' Union Corporate Communion day, so I used the scripture readings for last Monday's Feast of the Annunciation. I spoke about the risk agreed to by Mary in accepting to become a mother, in an age where stillbirth and dying in childbirth were much more common than now. It was hearing a morning news item about authorising Coroners to investigate still-births that triggered this line of thought, plus recalling of the MU's  maternal health care and educational work in the Anglican Communion. From the looks of recognition I observed, it seems talking of pre-natal loss struck a chord with some of those present. As someone said to me afterwards; "You never forget it, not even decades after."

I cooked lunch when I got back, to coincide with Clare's arrival from school, then a siesta with the lunchtime news playing on the radio. I woke up just after the afternoon drama started in Radio 4. It was about a man transported in a dream to Britain a hundred years from now. It was a post brexit post apocalyptic world which, for a change was not dysfunctional or savage. It was more like a rural paradise in which everyone lived in peace and harmony, seeking each others' welfare before their own, working as much or as little as they chose. 

It portrayed a post capitalist world in which money, competition and consumerism were irrelevant and redundant, a world in which technology was the servant of all, not the master. It was a dream of Utopia or maybe Erewhon, given the New Age idealism in action wryly portrayed, how selfishness anxiety and greed were successfully abandoned for a better way, was glossed over. Perhaps it was beyond imagining. How do you get from the agony of the Great Tribulation to an ideal realm with no struggle or suffering birth pangs? Well, it was an idealist's fantasy I suppose, quite entertaining too, but how strange that I should wake up like that into a dream.

I then went for a walk around Pontcanna Fields and Bute Park to enjoy the sun and revel in the birdsong. So far, no ducklings on the river Taff however. It's lovely to see so many people, even on an working weekday afternoon, taking time out to sit on the grass and chat. Most make an effort to take their empty cans bottles and cartons to the nearest rubbish bin. It's such a pity these are quickly full to overflowing and not emptied often enough in the day. It only encourages people get lazy and leave a mess rather than take their cast offs home with them.

As I was passing the Summer House Cafe in Bute Park, I was accosted by a man, who noticed that I was wearing a cross. He asked if I could tell him about Jesus, declaring he knew little about religion. We sat on a bench in the sunshine and talked for half an hour. He told me that he was a Kurd and had been in Britain for the past twenty years, an exile from the time of the Iraq war. His father had been a Jew by birth and his mother a Muslim, but he'd been raised to know neither religious community, perhaps because of the unsettled lives they'd had over the years. He said he was searching for a way of peace and goodness to follow, and had a horror of Islam from what he knew of its extremists.

So what could I tell him about Jesus? He vaguely knew that Jews had crucified Jesus, but seemed unaware that Jesus was a faithful Jews whose teaching was resented by some who sought to kill him, though not all. I told him how Jerusalem and the Temple Mount were holy places common to all three religions, that stories of Jesus were found in the Qu'ran and in the four Gospels, and that Jesus was acknowledged as a teacher and prophet in Judaism.

He told me he spoke Kurdish, Turkish, Arabic, Farsi and English and was aware that in Kurdish areas, Christians, Muslims and Jews co-existed peacefully, but he was not aware this is reuw in most moderate societies in the MIddle East and beyond. He didn't know and struggled to grasp that Jesus worshipped in Hebrew and spoke Aramaic, which isn't the same as Arabic. His own background was evidently one of diversity of cultures, but didn't realise that other regions had their own histories of diverse culture. What you pick up from the media headlines rarely reflects everyday grass roots reality.

I think if you're coming from knowing nothing about the setting of Jesus' life, there are a few things like this it's helpful to understand from the outset. I advised him to google on his smartphone 'The Gospels in Kurdish' to find texts he could read in his mother tongue, assuming that his early learning to read would have been in Kurdish, and move on to reading them in other languages later when he's hungry for it. Reading the same story in different languages can give you a much richer idea of what the message of the story is, an take you beyond words too.

For me, reading for oneself about 'all that Jesus did and said' is the place to start, even though it can be a difficult path to start with. Getting to know Him through scripture opens the way to making a relationship with Him and God. You can take it at your own pace, and if ever you have questions, there'll be Christians around to ask not to far away, even kurdish Christians maybe. He was making a tentative first step, and impulsive move to approach a stranger in a park. He wasn't looking for a follow up meeting, I thought, just a little encouragement to start the journey.

Such an encounter is a rarity for me, and thrilling too. It's something I like to think I'm ready for, starting from who we are whenever we meet. But, out of the blue like that, this also had a dreamlike quality to it, only I wasn't in the audience listening to the drama, but rather on-stage being myself.

  

A topical night out

This morning I celebrated the Eucharist again at St Catherine's. but didn't have a wound clinic visit, as I'm reducing frequency to three per week at least until the next operation. I went yesterday and was given a good stock of relevant medical supplies to see us through at home into next week. This seems reasonable, given that we coped from Friday to Monday without any cause for concern. Help and advice is never far away given the nursing team helpline anyway.

In the evening we walked over to the Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama for a production of Benjamin Britten's opera 'Albert Herring' by students. A comedy, written in 1947 set in deepest East  Sussex it satires traditional rural village conventions and customs, and the emerging gap between generations of inhabitants with different expectations. In a way, it looks forward a decade to the rise of the idea of the teenager, and the revolution of the Swinging Sixties. 

It was brilliantly performed by its eight singers, and an interesting stage set design involving several large packing crates from which props for the four acts were extracted, or were unfolded to become props themselves.

At the start of the second half, I noticed a EU flag stuck to the side of one packing case, close to where a line of Union Flag bunting was draped. A curious juxtaposition I thought, given that setting was 25 years before the EU came into being. Then a rather smart but sinister lady fixer, one of the cast of singers, came on stage, spotted the EU flag and took it down conspicuously, causing a ripple of laughter in the audience. A little joke that's all maybe? But not quite. Instead of the final curtain, a large Union Flag was unfurled above the stage, bearing the legend 'Taking back control' one of the most hackneyed brexit slogans in the midst of present chaos. Then it made sense.

Mischievously anachronistic though the EU and Union flag incidents were, the storyline was about the efforts of the young to forge a path in life on their own terms, and the efforts of their elders and those who think they know better to regain control over them - just like brexit. So, it was a modern comment to accompany the tale told. So it became a  topical night out, in the light of the decisions being taken in Parliament this week.

Another funeral day

The proximity of today's two funerals made it impossible to keep my clinic appointment, but as I had time to spare before the first service at eleven, in St John's church near Riverside surgery, so I popped in to tell the duty nurse I needed to cancel, and re-book for tomorrow. I managed to get a brief word with her in between patients, but pressure of time meant I couldn't restock on medical supplies which ran down over the long weekend, so here's hoping I don't need an extra change overnight. I'm now at the stage of being able to go 18 hours unchanged without discomfort, a measure of improvement, but set-backs and accidents can happen, being prepared (the motto of the Boy Scouts as I was nurtured by that august organisation, growing up), is always essential. "Expect the unexpected", as Ashley is fond of saying.

I reached home from Thornhill Crematorium after the first funeral in time to cook and eat lunch, before being picked up for the second funeral, which was all held there. The majority of funerals I am engaged for are with Pidgeons, our local company based in the Parish, and by now I am well acquainted with most of their work teams. One familiar today was with a Penarth company I hadn't come across before, and the other with with a Rumney company, for whom I have done a handful of funerals since retirement. This means having to be on the alert in case they do anything unfamiliar. A small effort to make, to ensure no awkwardness mars the otherwise smooth procession of events.

In both cases the size of the coffin indicated that the dead men were heavyweights. It's not such an uncommon problem these days, and I feel for the men - and it is nearly all men - whose work it is to handle with respect such hefty bodies from deathbed to grave or incinerator. It seems that American companies are way ahead of British ones in the fitting of lifting technology to hearses and indeed to stretcher trolleys used. I wonder why the Americans call them 'gurneys' Although I suppose stretcher trolley is a pretty odd term too.

The rest of the day I spent watching in bed the last three episodes of 'Vanished by the Lake', making sure to relax and rest after the exertions of the day, which I think I coped with quite well. Listening to French movie dialogue seems to have become much easier to follow when I've been watching box set series this past few months. I wonder if this is a benefit of spending a year revising French using DuoLingo, even though I've stopped French now. It's not so much pronunciation, as turns of phrase that now seem easier to grasp, which at one time seemed a bit obscure to me, even though I spoke and was using French often. One way or another, despite the frustrations of French DuoLingo, it was worth the effort.
  

Spring light, Lenten pleasure

Clare and Ann went yesterday morning to the National Museum to see exhibitions of Leonardo da Vinci drawings and Kyffin Williams paintings, and then have lunch in town. I did my bereavement visits and for the first, I caught a convenient to bus out to Ely. Later in the afternoon, it was a matter of driving to Penarth for the other. Had I not siesta'd quite as long, I might have also caught a bus for this as well, but didn't give myself enough time. It's good to know I can drive modest distances again should the need arise. Wound healing progresses well, and it's a lot less weepy now than even week ago, though for no discernable reason I still get bouts of discomfort.

In the BBC Four prime time evening slot, another Icelandic drama, this time a tragic modern ghost story. I wanted to watch this but the girls wanted to watch something else, so I went to bed after supper and used my Chromebook. First, I watched an episode of 'Vanished by the Lake' on the Walter Presents Channel'. It's a fair compromise, and if sitting for any length of time is too uncomfortable there's a fall back option, literally.

This morning I celebrated and preached at St Catherine's, then walked to St David's clinic just on time, only to find it deserted. While we were away there was a phone call, left on our answering machine, about a schedule change from 15.30 to 12.20, which was actually more convenient for us. Clare rang back to confirm acceptance of the schedule change, but was kept on hold for so long with the call handler 'just checking', she thought she'd been cut off, so she put down the phone, and hoped for the best. The confirmatory call wasn't registered on the nursing computer schedule, explaining how nobody was there to see me, so I left an explanatory note on the treatment room door and went home for lunch. Ah well, I got the exercise, just turning up, and home dressing is fine, until we start running out of medical supplies.

After a siesta, a walk around Thompson's Park, enjoying another cheering day of blue skies and sunshine. It was Spring Equinox on Thursday last, and the clocks go forward next weekend. It's lovely to have lighter evenings worth enjoying outdoors. Leaves are starting to unfurl next to the blossom on many trees, the colours are exquisite. It's very much a season of renewal, and I must keep reminding myself of this at a time when Lent type efforts seem to me foreign and irrelevant. Unless being obliged to give up over-activity is really a form of renunciation!

Clare still reckons I'm doing more than I should. I'm pretty tired after the past few days of travelling, as I often seem to be after a period of non-routine activity, but it was so good to go away and see the sea again, something I've missed all winter. I must be sure to let my body catch up, even if it's hard to build up stamina reserves at the moment.

Anyway, I retired early again and watched a couple more episodes of 'Vanished by the Lake'. It's set in the Provencal pre-Alp mountain town of Sainte Croix du Verdon, north of Toulon. It has the same main detective characters as in 'Killer at the Lake' which I watched a few weeks ago, except that the lake in question isn't Annecy, as in the longer later series, but the Lac de Sainte Croix. There seems to be no indication in either series of the back story behind the change of setting. A mystery!
  

Family funeral and more

We breakfasted in style with Ann this morning, checked out and took the local train which runs south west along the Exe valley to the sea coast. The valley opens out into a mile wide estuary and the line hugs the shore as far as the Teign estuary before turning inland. Called the Riviera Line, it's an amazing scenic route with dark red sandstone cliffs, and beaches whose sand colour varies from pale gold to pink.

We'd sometimes travel this way to reach Torquay or Paignton for Miners' Fortnight family holidays when I was a child, but only a couple of times in the fifty five years since I left home. It reminds me a little of the Mediterraneo line journey from Barcelona to Vinaros, which I've done a few more times in recent years.

Dawlish is a lovely small town set in a coastal valley, which has evolved around holiday-makers. A park with a stream runs inland through the town centre. The town is famous for its black swans, and this area generally sees an interesting number of migratory bird species.

St Gregory's Parish church is a mile inland from the station. It's a beautiful building dating back to the 14th century. The westermost bay of its nave has been partitioned off with a glass wall into an upper room with kitchen for meetings, and a ground floor narthex with office space, very nicely done. 

Daphne's children Nick and Caroline welcomed the congregation to a reception there after a service in which both paid tributes to their mother. She would have been proud of them. About two dozen of us attended. Daphne moved away from here into sheltered accommodation over ten years ago, and being 89, few of her resident contemporaries would still be around and active. The priest was a retired cleric living locally, covering as I do for the two parish clergy, away at a training event.

Talking of this, Emma emailed me to ask if I could cover her for two funerals this coming Monday as she has been forced by an painful injury to stop work. This meant making a succession of phone calls after breakfast to next of kin and funeral directors to explain the situation, but it was soon done, with pastoral visits booked for tomorrow.

After the reception, family members retired to a nearby pub for a drink and a toast to Daphne's memory, then at five our three hour return trip to Cardiff started, with Ann accompanying us for a weekend stay. It meant we could relax and continue reminiscing over a welcome bottle of good Tempranillo before turning in after a long day, charged with beauty and sadness. My photos of the day are here

Exeter stopover

Yesterday I celebrated the midweek Eucharist at St Catherine's again, and was pleased to learn that Mike, whose operation in the same week as mine was cancelled, had finally been operated upon on Monday just gone. It sounded like something pretty trick and difficult to do well. He'll be in possibly for a few weeks, but came though it as well as possible. Something extra for us to pray about.

This morning, I stood in for Emma again at St John's, as she'd been in hospital with suspicious pains in need of checking out yesterday. It sounds like a shoulder or rib-cage injury which can be quite disabling to cope with ordinary tasks. Afterwards, I returned home and packed my rucksack for our trip to Dawlish to attend Auntie Daphne's funeral, taking place in the Parish Church of St Gregory, which she used to attend, before she needed sheltered accommodation.

I went to the wound clinic on my way to the station to meet with Clare, then took a bus which got me there with ten minutes to spare. We had a half hour wait for a connecting train in Bristol Temple Meads, and then another hour's journey to Exeter St David's to stop overnight in the Great Western Hotel, conveniently located at the far end of the station car park. I think it's probably a nineteenth century hotel which consumed and converted neighbouring properties as it expanded. It's not been structurally modified and could really do with a makeover, the rooms although clean, look like they could do with renovation, but the bed was comfortable and it was quiet, and that's what matters.

I left the hotel at half past five, to take advantage of the remaining light of the day, walking up the hill to the city centre, and through to the Cathedral. Evensong was nearing its end and the caretaker had closed the visitor entrance. Nevertheless, I got some good townscape and Cathedral exterior photos. Some of the buildings, from their facades, date back to the 17-18th century. Work has begun on re-building the Georgian Royal Clarence hotel in Cathedral Yard, after the catastrophic fire which gutted its interior on October 28th 2016. The aim is to restore its facade, but I daresay that a lot of modifications to the interior layout will be required not only for fire safety but also to the kind of accommodation offered, even if all the public rooms resume their former splendour eventually. This isn't unusual where old buildings are concerned, thinking of what's happening at this moment with the Custom House building near Cardiff Central Station, of which only the 19th century facade remains.

Sister in law Ann arrived at the hotel an hour after we did, then in the evening John Muir and two of his sons Tim and Andrew came to Exeter from Dawlish, where they are staying a few days in a farmhouse AirBnb for the funeral. They joined us for supper at the magnificent Imperial Hotel, just up the hill from our hotel. This is a big building dating from 1810 with a very fine cast iron arched Orangery on a grand scale dating from 1897. The ground floor public rooms of the building are given over to dining areas, able to accommodate hundreds.

It's a Wetherspoon's institution, run with huge efficiency. All our food and drinks were ordered by Tim using the company's smartphone app, and amazingly, within fifteen minutes of finding a table for the six of us, our food hand drinks had been served, hot and freshly cooked. Very impressive, even if I won't ever agree with its pro-brexit founder Tim Martin's political stance. Sure you can run a successful business around the use of a well designed app, good logistics and staff teams with a sense of mission and shared identity as good as any small army, but this solution doesn't necessarily scale up to running an entire nation's trading interface with the rest of Europe and the world. The more variables and uncertainties there are, the more complex systems become, and less easy to manage by throwing more material or algorithmic resources at it - remember catastrophe theory? It hasn't gone away. In fact the whole brexit political and economic debacle show the danger of not taking this risk factor into account.

Post surgical briefing

We drove to UHW Heath hospital this morning to meet colorectal consultant surgeon Mrs Cornish during her day on Duthie Ward. We had a good question and answer session before she examined me, thoroughly and with surprising vigour, which left me feeling a little bruised. At least, she was satisfied with progress so far, and now I know much better where I stand. Although she's pleased, the process isn't going to be as straightforward as I originally thought. I may need several more minor ops over this year for complete success in healing, because of the complexity of the condition when finally treated properly. It depends on what hidden pockets of infection the next MRI scan reveals, following the op expected in 4 weeks time. This will modify if not remove the two Seton's sutures in place. For some poor folk such hidden sources of nastiness don't show, and they have to endure with further occasional outbreaks for life. 

Completely successful treatment without recurrence it seems is a challenge, and that's where FIAT 500 comes in. Not the car, but a collaborative international surgical research programme on fistula treatment. If I got the story right, I think it stands for Fistula Intervention Alternative Treatments. 500 is the number of patients being followed, with four strategies for dealing surgically with fistula damage assessed to ascertain which treatment path offers the best outcome. This shows the determination and effort going into dealing with what seems to have become a common chronic ailment soaking up medical resources. Finding the most effective approach will benefit patients and the economics of medical care. 

Although I am stuck with the sutures for the time being, the next op will make them more easy to manage and liveable with. So, travel afar may be possible and even insurable later on this year. if it's a 'managed condition'. Apparently, that's an acceptable risk to insurers, something I never needed to know before! I was reassured that the next op wouldn't call for any change in scheduled duties. Just like last time in fact. It's good to know. I'd be very sad not to able to play an active part in Parish observances of Passiontide and Easter, a favourite time of year for me. 

This was a good meeting. I feel that for the first time I have gained an understanding of the process of this treatment. I can accept the uncertainties, possible reasons for things not going according to plan, and what I need to continue doing to optimise the path to healing. This makes me cheerful, in spite of the fact that it may take much longer than I hoped.

After lunch, it was Clare's turn to be driven by me back to UHW for an eye appointment, fitted in to a schedule already overcrowded by the cancellation of a previous clinic. I drove  from the hospital down to Newport Road retail park to visit the big Currys PC World superstore there to see what's new and what's on offer. I was interested to see some HP Chromebooks on sale there, as well as Acer and Asus offerings, though no sign of Lenovo or Dell Chromebook models. I've only seen the stylish Acer and Asus models in the city centre store. Sadly consumer demand for Chromebooks seems to be poor in this country, despite them being far more hassle free than Windows devices.

Talking of poor demand, the company which acquired Staples business supplies stores and rebranded them 'Office Outlet' stores has gone into liquidation. I thought their prices too were high and range of product choices too low to be worth the effort when on-line bulk buying is so convenient, as long as you have someone available to await delivery. So I'm not surprised this business failed.

This consumer digital superstore was almost empty. Maybe it's busier at weekends or evenings. As is being said often these day, retail businesses have becoming like real world showrooms as more trade is done on-line. I wonder if Currys-PC World digital sales cover the cost of maintaining such huge retail outlets? Will this be a next casualty of the digital shopping revolution? After an hour or so of mooching around a store with lots of bright snazzy new products, none of which I was tempted to buy, Clare called me to return and collect her from UHW, after her long wait to be seen. We got back in time for her to sort herself out and leave for choir rehearsal.

A licensing at Evensong

Fr Rhys celebrated the Parish Churches we attended at St Catherine's this morning. I had to rush off to the wound clinic in St David's Hospital straight after, as I had an earlier than usual appointment. It meant I was back home for lunch punctually, and had an afternoon to finish watching the last three episodes of 'Killer by the Lake',

How it all worked out was interesting, as suspicions fell on several people close to the investigators in turn, before an unlikely perpetrator emerged, who was even closer, with a hidden tragic family history and a deadly schizoid condition. It was only thanks to several seemingly unrelated incidents impacting upon the case that the killer was discovered at all, despite the best appliance of crime science to the case. Luck and coincidence played their part, not an uncommon story, I imagine, in real life too. Alongside this, the portrayal, with some fine acting, of a lead detective's mother with early onset Alzheimer's, effectively woven into the storyline - more then, than just a crime thriller. 

I watched on my tablet, stretched out in bed, by far the most comfortable thing to do at the moment. My gluteous maximus muscles have lost bulk with my overall weight loss, so I'm less well padded than I used to be. It means the Seton's sutures dig into me more than earlier so sitting still without getting up for any length of time is hard.

We walked to St John's for Evensong at six. After the sermon, Fr Rhys was licensed to the Parish  by Archdeacon Peggy as a NSM Associate Priest - that's new catch-all designation jargon for whoever isn't Team Rector or Incumbent. It's meant to cover Curates, Team Vicars, and non-stipendiary clergy in a ministry area team, but not those with Permission to Officiate, whether as retirees or salaried priests not on the diocesan payroll, (as I was when a University Chaplain, and when I was a USPG Area Secretary), offering voluntary ministry in Parishes on request without a formal role. It's all a bit odd to the uninitiated.

There were three dozen in the congregation, including Fr Peter Sedgwick, whom I haven't seen for more than a year. We used to meet out in the Fields when he and Jan were walking their dog, but the dog died unexpectedly last year and hasn't yet been replaced so their habitual pattern is in suspense. Peter is active working in a local food bank, with refugees and with homeless people, when he's not taking part in high level ARCIC consultations. And, he's recently published a magisterial tome on a subject close to his own heart, Anglican moral and pastoral theology. It's been well received I'm glad to say. It was very good to catch up with him again.
  

Grand Slam weekend fiesta

Clare went for a swim and gym session yesterday morning and we met for lunch afterwards in John Lewis' restaurant, before I walked back to Riverside Clinic for my daily dressing appointment, at a  later time than usual. Already the influx of green shirted rugby fans was noticeable, standing outside pubs, drinking and chatting in the damp afternoon air, enjoying the weekend around tomorrow's six nations final match. A quarter of a million people are expected to descend on Cardiff to watch inside the Principality Stadium, or outside.

This morning I walked to Lidl's in Leckwith to get some bargain packs of cashew nuts, which mixed with olive oil and a dash of salt can be blended into a deliciously tasty butter substitute. Walking there and back along 150 metres of footpath alongside the park next to the store, I collected around fifty discarded cans, bottles and paper cups, disfiguring the greensward. The sight of this offends me, and still the best way to cope with the resentment this arouses in me is to do some 'wombling' as the family call it. 

Returning up Llandaff Road, I saw small groups of mainly men dressed in red shirts walking towards town, chatting about the prospects for the day. They walk in, rather than driving and attempting to park close in to the centre. Bus services become rather erratic on days of high congestion like this one, and stop altogether two hours before the match, so those with stadium tickets won't risk being held up - and they need time for a few beers as well.

The earlier wind brought first drizzle, then a steady downpour of rain, so going out and walking into town to savour the atmosphere lost all its appeal.  I watched the second half of the match on TV and was astonished at how superbly the Welsh team played to claim its fourteenth victory in a row, not to mention its fourth Grand Slam victory in the new millennium. Cardiff will be a happy rowdy place tonight. I dread to think about the amount of litter that will be generated. For the most part it will have been cleared away by lunchtime tomorrow. If only the same effort and focus were applied to tidying all the city's parks and public spaces! 

Because I walk the same streets almost daily, on my way to the clinic or the shops, I am aware that dropped or parked bottles, cans, cups and cartons lie in the same place for days, even weeks at a time. I don't think that the thinly distributed array of local litter bins get emptied more than once a week either. By the time the weekend arrives, park bins may already on their way to being full, and by Sunday night are overflowing. Our filthy streets are a testimony to consumer carelessness and to cutbacks in municipal spending.

The evening, the last couple of episodes of Icelandic crimmie 'Trapped' were shown on BBC Four. An impressive and touching drama, full of interesting characters with tragic family secrets, topical social issues, and a backdrop of amazing scenery. People I know have spoken highly of the holiday visits to Iceland. I don't think I could enjoy the clouds and rain however. Cross country skiing in midwinter would be great, but for the short days and long nights, so it won't feature on my tourism wish list any time soon. At the moment all I can hope for is to be fit enough and able to travel again.

Life saving friendship

I celebrated the Eucharist at St Catherine's yesterday morning with eight others, then went to the wound clinic, did some shopping and the walked to the Natural Health clinic for an acupuncture treatment. I was quite tired when I got there but the treatment rejuvenated me. Even so, I laid low for the rest of the day.

Emma asked me to stand in for her at the St John's midweek Eucharist this morning, which I was happy to do. Apparently she'd just received an invitation from a Muslim women's group to visit one of our city's mosques. That's the sort of invitation which wouldn't be extended to a male priest, and it shows what possibilities of dialogue are opened up, simply by having ordained women clergy.

After a clinic visit, lunch and a siesta, we drove to Newport to visit Martin. It's the first time we've seen him since his life-changing colostomy operation three weeks ago. We're amazed at how well he is looking and how active he is able to be, within limits, like me. He had prepared tea for us, with cream cakes and cucumber sandwiches to celebrate. He spoke inspiringly of the positive experience and of people he'd met through this truly life-threatening crisis. 

His GP recognised before the hospital specialists who'd been scanning and testing him, exactly what had gone wrong. She rushed him to hospital, with only hours to spare before toxins overwhelmed his vital organs, saving his life. She'd been a youngster in the Parish of Pontyclun when he was Vicar there. He followed the development of her vocation and career, and kept in touch. Eventually he signed up as one of her patients in a local medical practice. Who could have foreseen this?  

When we returned home there wasn't anything I wanted to watch on TV, so I went up to bed to watch a French crimmie from More Four's 'Walter Presents' on my tablet. This one is called 'Murder on the Lake'. Setting is Lake Annecy in Haute Savoie which we know well from camping holidays when the children were young over thirty years ago. And it's great to get glimpses of familiar much loved landscapes - and to hear French spoken with hints of a familiar regional accent as well. It's yet another 'hunt the serial killer' show, in which a social media dating app plays a key part in the killer's modus operandum. The plot twist is that some of the cops involved in the hunt are using dating apps to cheat on their spouses while at work. I wonder if the truth is as strange as the fiction here?

Waiting on Parliament and on God

I've been following events in Parliament closely this past few days and will do for the rest of this critical week in European politics. I follow just as closely what media reports and the commentariat have to say about it. It's hard to know which group is the more worrying of the two. 

For ages it's seemed to me that MPs are dimly aware or ill informed on all the consequences of decisions they are required to take, often less interested in the common good than in preserving self-interests. Journalists and interviewers often seem poorly briefed, not quite up to date, and utterly devoted to over-simplifying every issue, and enforcing binary options to which an instant response is required from their unfortunate victim. 

I find myself reluctant to trust the majority of public voices, whether elected or employed in the media, to speak the whole truth in the service of all citizens. It's argued that all this disagreement, division and harsh debate about the way forward for the country is what democracy is about. What I see is elite groups struggling for control, not for a unifying consensus, setting a bad example that exacerbates existing social division in the population. It's recipe for civil strife if many on both sides of the brexit debate feel their voices are unheard and don't get what they thought they wanted from the outcome of this agonising process. 

Britain is no longer a society in which Christian moral values and spiritual influence set the tone or give a lead in nurturing a more just and equal society. We have become to a much greater extent a multi-faith and plural culture, tolerant in some respects, but overly lax and permissive in others. The total proportion of people of any faith who practice their religion and apply its teaching is perhaps a quarter of the population. To have a secular environment in which all believers enjoy equal respect and treatment can be beneficial to the common good, but at what price? To have secularism as a dominant ideology fostering individualism, striving to discredit and exclude religious thought and influence from the public debate, poses a grave danger. 

It's all too easy for cultured despisers of religion to dismiss the faith perspective on the grounds of differences in beliefs and the awful conflicts these have generated, and ignore elements of different religious paths on which believers do unite in pursuit of truth justice, equality and goodness. The idea of Christendom is a lost cause, but the spiritual reality of God's kingdom, and human beings as God's children transcends culture and religion. I believe it can and should be worked towards by all people of faith, thinking and working together for the common good, regardless of differences. And to make any fresh impact on the wider world, every household of faith has to set its own house in order, purge itself of deceit, corruption and exploitation. Believers in God have lost so much of their credibility, it's easier said than done to restore it, maybe beyond us humans, but not beyond God. So, it's a matter of watching and waiting on God for the kingdom to break through - yet again.

Travelling in

A good night's sleep helped me regain my equilibrium after a couple of unexpectedly tiring days. I did two lots of weekly shopping and visited the wound clinic for an early appointment before lunch, but then didn't do much else for the rest of the day, apart from read news stories and ponder.

We heard this morning about Auntie Daphne's funeral arrangements. There's to be a service, a week next Friday at the Parish Church of St Gregory in Dawlish, which she used to attend before she moved into sheltered accommodation some ten years ago. It's a long slow train journey to get there for midday. It would mean leaving at an impossible time, since our domestic routine revolves around ablutions and wound management. So, we'll travel the previous afternoon and stay overnight in a hotel near the station. Sister in law Ann will travel over from Felixstowe and join us there. Exeter is a city we've visited just once, when we were young, so an overnight stop will give us an opportunity for a little sightseeing too.

Lent is under way, and I find myself unable to settle on doing anything special or different this year. While it's true that illness or infirmity dispense a person from the usual Lenten exercises, I'm not so incapacitated by my condition as to feel this applies to me. For months I've had to exercise restraint over the amount I eat, and drinking wine isn't something I can do much of, or all that often. I've had to learn to be more mindful of real bodily needs, rather than consuming for pleasure. That's more how Lenten self-denial is meant to be - awareness and control of appetites in order to be free from being distracted or dominated by them. It's not a practice of virtue, but a necessity at the moment. 

In the past I've made an effort to write a daily biblical or liturgical reflection in Lent, but creative inspiration eludes me at the moment, and I find I have no inclination to pursue a course of study or read a book. Lenten things I hear on the radio or read on-line, often familiar and worthy in their way, seem formulaic, clichéd. I feel in need of spiritual stimulus, but hunting for it 'out there' seems like 'vanity, a chasing after wind'. 

My life is focussed around patiently waiting, being careful to stay as healthy as I can and not do anything to sabotage physical healing or make life difficult for Clare and everyone else concerned for me. Perhaps the challenge before me is to travel inward, empty handed, not knowing what's there to learn or discover. 

'Iremos de noche, para encontrar la fuente, solo la sed nos alumbra'

    

Sunday missed

A leisurely family supper last night was followed by an equally leisurely family breakfast. I think we all enjoyed it so much that we're contemplating arranging another hotel weekend together for a repeat gathering. When Rachel and Jasmine next come over maybe? 

We parted company just after eleven, Owain returning with Kath, Anto and Rhiannon to Bristol and showing them his new flat, and us heading back to Cardiff. High winds disrupted traffic using the main Severn crossing, the old bridge was closed. This meant lane closures and traffic queuing on the M69 to get on to the M4 westbound,adding twenty minutes to our journey. Although I had been very comfortable driving on Friday afternoon, I couldn't get comfortable at all during this journey, so we stopped at Magor services so that Clare could drive, as my distress was impairing my concentration. It's impossible to why this set back occurred, except that I was still feeling tired and stiff from sitting around so much yesterday, bouts of exercise notwithstanding.

The demise of advertised eight o'clock Communion services at churches within reach of the hotel and the long family breakfast meant having to miss the Sunday Eucharist altogether. I wasn't happy about this but simply had to accept it, and be sure to add the Liturgy of the Word for Lent One into my saying of the Daily Office. I was disappointed not to be able to worship as a visitor in a church I haven't been to before. This doesn't happen very often, and it's an opportunity to learn something new about congregational life in changing times.

After a quick lunch when we arrived home, Clare was collected and taken to Bristol for her monthly study session. I went to bed and watched last night's double episode of Icelandic crimmie 'Trapped' on my Chromebook. There wasn't much either of us fancied watching in the evening, apart from an episode of 'Allo! Allo!', which always makes us laugh out loud, tiredness notwithstanding. Then early bed, desperate for more sleep. 

A really big birthday

We dined in at the hotel last night and had an excellent meal. Beforehand, Clare found the shower thermostat wasn't working, so she complained. While we were eating a plumber arrived and fixed the problem. We were treated to a complimentary bottle of Chilean Merlot on the house! Our day started with a generous breakfast, and a walk on the beach in the wind, before getting ready for the birthday lunch. Owain arrived, then Kath, Anto and Rhiannon separately, and all checked into their rooms just as Pauline and her offspring arrived and started greeting their guests. Altogether we were three tables of ten - one for her immediate family, another for friends, and yet another for cousins. Dianne and Ian, Guy and Pam, Clare and I, plus our brood.

It was a delightful celebration, a time for reminiscence and catch-up, Pauline gave a little speech and cut the cake, and all partook of an excellent buffet lunch. By tea-time, everyone had departed, so we that remained for a night together at the hotel went out for another walk in the wind up the beach and back. Then, Clare, Kath and Owain went for a swim in the hotel pool, and Anto spent some time in the sauna, I just went to bed to recuperate. It wasn't so much the physical exercise that seemed to drain me, but several hours of socialising, reaching out to people, to an extent that I have been unable to for many months. I'm fine with familiar routine social interaction at church, but none last quite as long as this party, I guess. We all had supper together at eight, and by ten I headed off for bed, leaving the others chatting and drinking.

It was a lovely day, and it was great to see my eldest sister in such good form, sharp and engaging well with others at four score years and ten, despite inevitable physical frailty. Since Geoff died she has been contemplating moving to sheltered accommodation to be near daughter Nicky. Now she has decided to take the house off the market, and stay put until she cannot manage on her own and needs a nursing home. She has helpful friendly neighbours, a taxi service when needed, and Nicky orders for her all she needs on-line and has it delivered. It's the place she's lived longest in her life, and her family, although dispersed, keep in touch. Who needs all that disruption and re-adjustment at her age?

Return to Weston

After a wound clinic visit and early lunch we set off for Weston-super-Mare. I first came here as a toddler for the annual Miners' Fortnight family holiday, over seventy years ago. The beach, with its golden sand ending at low tide in estuarine mud, is everlasting the same, though the promenade has changed in appearance over the past forty years since we used to visit with our small children during our time in St Paul's Bristol.

I drove all the way and was comfortable doing so for the hour and a quarter journey. As I haven't driven for six weeks, not being able to sit for any length of time, yesterday morning I had a trial run, driving Clare to school, a mere twenty minutes behind the wheel. It did my morale good. It's evidence of improvement in my condition, albeit far to slowly for impatient old me.

We checked in to the Beachwood Hotel on the road south out of town, opposite the local golf course, just behind the beach. It's a small family run place catering for two dozen guests, with a swimming pool, the place where my brother in law Geoff's funeral reception party was held four and a half years ago.

Once we'd unpacked, we walked the mile in a strong wind along the beach promenade into the town centre, to hunt for a sleeveless pullover for me, as I forgot to pack the one I needed. Marks and Spencers delivered just what we were looking for. The sales lady told us the store is to close down in a few months time, having served the town's residents and visitors for more than a century. How sad!

Weston's town centre retail area seems to have suffered from incoherent development in post war years. It's a collection of Victorian era buildings and others of little architectural merit dating from the sixties to the turn of the century. In 2006, as part of an effort to enhance the townscape, an unusual artwork was installed, entitled 'Silica'. At ground level, its base houses a bus shelter on one side and a kiosk on the other, above that, a slim conical spire rises a hundred feet into the air, which is meant to light up at night. It's located at a place called Big Lamp Corner, and certainly provides a point for discussion, if only because of its sheer incongruity in this setting.

In July 2008, Weston's Grand Pier pavilion burned down, and a replacement one was commissioned and built, opening just over two years later. This is a more satisfactory effort to enhance the sea front environment, the result of an architectural competition, a stylish contemporary take on a traditional  sea-side pavilion theme. The beach promenade has undergone some structural improvements as well lately, with a succession of conventional looking wrought iron framed shelters, but also a series of substantial open air seating benches sculpted out of dark polished marble.

This time of year there are few holiday visitors. The winter weather makes it windswept and bleak, but there's something I like about the emptiness of the place, the sense of waiting, getting ready for the influx of visitors from Easter onwards. It reminded me of time spent in Spanish costa resorts out of season  My photos are here.

Musical delight

We heard today that Clare's Godmother, Auntie Daphne died this morning, a few days after her 88th birthday. She suffered a severely disabling stroke several years ago and was bed-ridden in a nursing home outside Exeter. Having been an independent active person all her life, infirmity was crippling to her spirit, and she hated needing so much help from others. I hope and pray that she was able to welcome death as a merciful release from her misery. 

My afternoon visit to the wound clinic saw me returning home laden with extra nursing supplies to take us through our planned weekend stay in Weston for sister Pauline's 90th birthday. The nurses have been ever so helpful in helping us prepare for this. 

For much of the day it was windy and it rained intermittently, but by early evening the weather calmed down, so we were able to walk to the Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama for a concert by the Welsh Sinfonia chamber orchestra. This is an Cardiff based ensemble of professional musicians, which tours around Wales to perform, and works with school music projects. The concert  programme included first symphonies by C.P.E. Bach and Beethoven, a rather odd 20th century piece by Charles Ives, plus Haydn's 'Cello concerto with Sheku Kanneh-Mason as the soloist. 

Three years ago he was Young Musician of the Year and is now in his second year studying at the Royal Academy of Music, in between gigs on the international concert circuit. I was perversely pleased the concert notes made no mention of him performing at last year's Royal Wedding, which made him somewhat a celebrity outside the music world. His status as a musician lies in continued recognition of his musicianship, all over the world. His playing was beautiful, exquisite in emotional maturity and sensitivity, as well as technical brilliance. What a wonderful musical treat!

  

And so Lent begins

It's later than usual this year, almost as late as it can get in fact. I celebrated the Penitential Mass of the day at St Catherine's with ten others, including the Reverend Emma, whose day off it is, but as she said to me on Sunday, how right it would be to be on the receiving end, in the pew. Instead of an off the cuff address, I prepared a brief homily last night, to stop me rambling on as long as I can do. I didn't want to be out of the house for too long in case the surgeon rang, which she didn't. After lunch, however, walking back home from the wound clinic, my mobile rang and I had a good ten minute chat with her.

She has my next round of surgery booked at week eight as stated at the outset, but given that the hospital outpatient appointment booking system is so overloaded currently, she is arranging to see me at UHW in a ward consulting room, on a day when she will be doing her round of patients! It's a nice piece of lateral thinking. And the date? March 19th, St Joseph the Worker's Day. It's only a few days later than when I was expecting to be seen. 

An assessment of healing progress will apparently determine whether one Seaton's suture or both are removed. If one, then there'll be another procedure later on. She couldn't be specific about the repair she'd done without having her case notes to hand. It's 'complex', is all anyone has been prepared to say who has examined me since mid December, and getting it right is vital to prevent recurrence. It's a matter of waiting, but now, waiting with some sense of direction, thankfully.

I am temperamentally prone to impatience, and have had to learn how to wait, train myself to some extent, to take a long view and work towards goes with care and attention, not always successfully. Being a patient for most of Lent ahead is imposed on me. A suitable penance? I wonder how I can make this fruitful for soul as well as body?

  

  

Breakthrough

Before my wound clinic visit this morning I had a GP appointment to review my top up medication. It gave me an opportunity to bring the doctor up to date on progress since the operation, and on the lack of progress in getting the follow up appointments in place. All in all, from her viewpoint, some progress has been made. My blood pressure is 'normal' for the first time in over a year, as my system is less stressed by the presence of an untreated abscess.

I've been thinking about the difference I felt coming around after the operation. It reminded me of when I had a tooth with an abscess as a child, feeling rotten miserable with toothache. The offending tooth was extracted, and although a gaping hole was left by the tooth bleeding and painful, that debilitating all encompassing sensation was gone. Dostoyevski spoke of this in his work 'Notes from the Underground' 155 years ago, it's something I recall reading in Philosophy classes in University 55 years ago. I lived with that for far too long, and maybe should have made a fuss about not getting treated earlier.

Martina, who is co-translating the book about baby play and digital media with Clare came to lunch today. I cooked a vegetarian sugo to go with pasta, and Clare cooked pancakes for dessert, served with a mix of fruits of the forest. A nice tribute to Shrove Tuesday. And we had pancakes again fro supper to finish off the unused mixture.

Later in the afternoon I went out for a walk, but it started to rain so I went into town on the bus and mooched around the shops for an hour or two. When I got back, I Clare told me that the surgeon, Ms Cornish had phoned, and will call again tomorrow. It was such a relief to know that a conversation about the next steps is now going to happen.

Family celebration in view

It's my sister Pauline's 90th birthday today. I rang her and sang Happy Birthday to her and we talked for half an hour. She's as lively and engaging as ever, coping with the ailments of ageing but young in spirit still. Friday coming, Clare and I travel Weston super Mare and stay a couple of nights. On Saturday, there's a family birthday lunch for her. Owain, Kath, Anto and Rhiannon are coming to join us, and stay overnight Saturday. It will be my first outing from Cardiff in six weeks, and a bit of a logistic challenge, in terms of wound care. I told the nurses about this, and we'll be kitted out with three days worth of medical supplies to see us through.

While I was out at the clinic this morning, a phone call came through for me from someone higher up in the UHW admin team, wanting to talk to me about my appointment concerns, so clearly the phone call to the Local Health Board hotline on Friday last has produced a result. I was asked to brief the admin supervisor about my situation in haste, as she was about to go into a surgeon's team meeting. I explained what I needed to know, and asked if I could be put n touch with the surgeon who would be accompanying me for subsequent outpatient appointments and procedures. Would it be Mrs Cornish again, or would it be the team leader who delegated the first job to her? No answer was forthcoming but she promised to ask.

Well, that's one small step forward, but until I know where I stand, I shall continue to wake up at four in the morning and lie awake wondering and worrying for an hour - and pay for it later in the day when tiredness creeps in again. It's been like that for the past several days.
  

Welcome home Rhys

This morning at St Catherine's Fr Rhys Jenkins presided and baptised at the Parish Eucharist. It's his first Sunday as NSM Associate Priest in the Benefice, a welcome addition to the team, as he lives in the community and is already well known and loved. Although this was a Sunday off for Emma, she took part in the celebration, welcoming Rhys at the start and administering Communion with him.

After an early lunch, I went to the wound clinic in St David's. Only on my way back did I realise that I had no appointment booked for tomorrow. I called the nursing helpline, but they were unable to fix one for me, as this team doesn't have access to the clinic's booking diary. I found St David's hospital reception number on-line, however, and was able to contact the clinic and obtain a date. It seems to me that the NHS suffers greatly from not having an computer data management system handling all the information of every department in an integrated way. It's not an impossible thing to achieve. 

The problem is, that the use of computer systems in hospital medicine evolved at different rates in different departments over decades. And each is a law unto itself. Many existing systems are out of date. Also they are not as secure as they need to be against malicious hackers. In other countries it seems, integrated information systems have been the norm for decades. Attempts to do the same in the UK have so far been expensive failures. To what extent, I wonder, does this reflect lack of shared vision about the future of the service offered? A bit like the failure of the brexit process to declare unequivocally what kind of future the UK wants, as opposed to what brexiteers are clear they don't want in future. 'Without a vision people perish' as the saying goes, as we spiral into chaos.

We didn't go out together in the afternoon. It rained. After a siesta, Clare had a school meeting from four until six with her eurythmy colleague Jacquie, so Russell came over with her, to drink coffee and chat for the duration. It was good to welcome him here for a change. 

After supper I watched the last episode of ITV's Inspector Morse prequel 'Endeavour', and very good it was too, telling a story of police corruption in the seventies. Before and after I watched on iPlayer the two episodes of the Icelandic crimmie 'Trapped', missed last night. It continues to develop interestingly, touching on current themes of multinational industry colonialism, environmental pollution, homophobia and political corruption, xenophobia and nationalist extremism. So many themes, tightly played out in a constricted social setting with awesome landscapes. Very much a modern Icelandic saga.

Repeat performance

I still haven't had a response from the hospital's surgical administrators to the query I raised ten days ago about the strange date for my interim outpatient appointment, ten weeks instead of four weeks after my operation. Neither has our GP surgery practice manager. So, yesterday, on her advice I rang the number of an office of the Cardiff and Vale Community Health Council, which offers support to patients in sorting out appointment concerns.

I spoke to a sympathetic lady called Donna who made notes on the story I told her and promised to get in touch with those responsible, and find out what is meant to be happening. 

There was no further contact from her at the end of the afternoon - typical Friday afternoon I guess, and there was nothing in the mail and no phone call today. We'll see what Monday brings. The same office helps people to make official complaints to the Local Health Board, and if this isn't sorted out in the coming week, in time for the outpatient appointment I was promised, this is the path I will take. It seems that however excellent the medical, surgical or nursing service that's offered, the managing of it all is chaotic, inefficient and error prone. And to think of the money spent on paying the elite few to oversee and support the front line teams!

Anyway, this evening, we went to the Millennium Centre for the WNO's performance of the third of Donizetti's Tudor cycle of operas 'Roberto Devereux'. It was the same production was we last saw on 6th October 2013, with a different cast of excellent singers, but still with Carlo Rizzi conducting. He's a great favourite with audience. It was only as the opera progressed that I realised that I had seen it before. The music and its performance were wonderful, but there are no memorable popular arias to establish it in the long term memory. I appreciate the sheer virtuosity in 'bel canto' operas, but this doesn't imprint itself upon me emotionally. The drab production was forgettable too. Looking back at what I wrote after last seeing this, my opinion hasn't changed.

The best part about the evening was bumping into Fr Hywel Davies in the foyer beforehand. He had been given four free tickets for the performance, and had invited Diana, Pete and Val, all of who we know. We had time for a snack supper together and a natter before the performance. Diana offered us a lift home by text, but as our phones were off, we didn't pick up the message until we were on the bus heading to the city centre. If fact, we were lucky to get a bus which left just minutes after we arrived at the stop, saving us a half hour wait. LIkewise in Westgate Street, where we took a 17 to Canton Cross and walked. We were back home, forty minutes after the performance. I wonder how long it took to retrieve cars and drive the same distance? I must remember to ask.

Dydd Gwyl Dewi

This evening, Clare and I walked to Llandaff Cathedral for the Solemn Mass of St David's Day. Six lay clerks sang Byrd's three part Mass, so the although the service was mainly in English, we also had a little Greek, some Latin and some Welsh! We greatly enjoyed sitting up in the choir, I had Fr Mark sitting next to me in his new Canon Precentor's choir stall. It was lovely to see him and catch up with him after the service.  

Clouds, rain and sunshine today, more like April than March, after a run of clear skies and sunshine you'd be pleased to have at the end of April. The seasonal weather patterns we are used to are not as predictable as they used to be, thanks to global warming. I am amazed that there seem to be so many people in influential positions who remain skeptical about the evidence. The brexit deadline date is now four weeks away. Already the UK economy is suffering the impact of unpredictability because the decision making is so late and so chaotic in nature. Most economic forecasts about its impact are gloomy, and yet this isn't persuading euro-skeptics to change their mind or their commitment to see this through. It a matter of beliefs and perceptions of the world we live in, regardless of facts.

G K Chesterton said "When a man stops believing in God he doesn't then believe in nothing, he believes anything." It's something I see reflected in the past decades of the ascendancy of secular post modern post-Christian thinking. Everyone thinks and does what is right in his own eyes. Personal opinion trumps unifying corporate consensus and common commitment. Alliances may be possible with others who think like us, but are quickly broken by any difference of opinion which threatens personal ideas. Parliamentary chaos at this present time reflects what permeates society and culture. 

Chesterton's belief in God was rooted in his sense of orthodox Catholic moral order and worldview, a perspective which permits skepticism and deep criticism of alternative philosophies, ideologies and beliefs. It's tragic that the church's critical voice is being disregarded by the majority these days. So much moral authority has been lost by keeping quiet, cozying up to corrupt and evil regimes, failing to confront injustice, and ignoring the abusive behaviour of people in positions of trust and authority in church leadership as well. Doing the opposite its demanding, uncomfortable and costly, and while individuals are willing to sacrifice themselves to do the truth they find at the heart of Christian faith, sacrifice by the body of the church for the sake of the same truth - is less than evident. This weakens that moral and spiritual authority which once bound believers together into a faith community, so they have drifted away, and joined the ranks of those believing anything else except the inherited tradition of faith.

I've thought a lot recently about why church hierarchs of different denominations have attempted to avoid dealing firmly and decisively with abusers who have been entrusted with pastoral care and responsibility, apart from the difficulties entailed in ensuring just process for those accused, and protecting victims and vulnerable people, apart from sheer ignorance and incompetence in handing exceptional matters with discipline and discretion. Dealing in confidence with abusive clergy, with no accountability for what disciplinary measures were taken, if any, then sending them on to work elsewhere with their past record hidden under the Seal, seems irresponsible to say the least. What drives such a conspiracy of silence on the part of church leadership may be more basic even than damage to the reputation of the church.

In an era of substantial decline in the number of ministers to serve even a declining constituency of believers, the fear of barring abusive clergy from public ministry for being a risk to those they serve imposes an even greater burden of ministry those who remain faithful and true. The fear is that with no pastors to bind the faithful together into a community with a sense of purpose and mission, the church will collapse and die in places where it is weak and vulnerable. It's not a decision to be taken lightly. When it's being faced by leaders at the top without consulting those who will be affected by any decision made, it exposes what is wrong with the way hierarchy is exercised in the mainstream traditional churches.

Since Vatican II lay ministry has developed vigorously in many parts of the Catholic church, world-wide, and in other hierarchical churches. Evangelical and Pentecostal churches have also sprung up and flourished from predominantly lay ministry. Pastoral care and nurture becomes more of a mutual endeavour than from the top downwards. What has always been at stake since the Reformation is the right kind of relationships between church leadership and members. This changes as society itself changes. We're still adapting, still learning what this means for our era. 

Communities concealing and not dealing with personal or communal violence within their membership or leadership are frightened to tackle deep ailments in the Body. And that has fatal consequences. Are churches now ready and willing to learn and act fearlessly to make healing possible? We shall see. It's shameful that it's taken the long arm of secular law enforcement to shed light upon this matter.

If Dewi Sant was with us today, in a gathering of the faithful, would he be recognisable before he stepped out of the crowd to proclaim the world. I don't think that Celtic Christians were devoted to wearing status garments borrowed by ancient Western church leaders from civil society. I don't think that Celtic monks adopted wearing monastic habits either, no matter how often religious art portrays it anachronistically. I'd like to think you could work out who he was in a group, as he'd be the one who would listen more than he spoke, answered when asked, and always with a warm smile.