Good offer

Before lunch today I went to the wound clinic for my second appointment of the week. The nurse remarked on the progress made since she last saw me two weeks ago, and we agreed it would be OK to go without a dressing, just a light protective covering to ensure it gets an airing, as long as this is convenient and manageable. This is good news although there won't be any major change until the remaining Seton's suture is removed, to make complete closure possible. 

It's now four weeks since the MRI scan, which was promised to be 'available' three weeks after processing. I have no idea when I will be summoned for my next meeting with the surgeon, and the hospital appointments system has not improved since the utter chaos of the last round. However, it was a lot more distressing when I was getting worse last autumn and not getting better, like now.

Clare and I went into town together shopping for shoes in the late afternoon. She got she wanted in one store, then we went looking for the Ecco shoe shop, relocated recently in the St David's Grand Arcade. It was only when I took my sandals off to try on a new pair that I discovered a huge crack in the left heel, and a piece threatening to break off. Just in time! It's three years and two weeks since I last bought sandals, and I have worn that pair fairly continuously for eight months each year, without becoming uncomfortable. This is indeed impressive durability in consumer footware. The shop had a special offer on two pairs for forty percent off, so Clare took advantage of this, and we both returned home pleased after our little expedition.
   

Ascension contention

This morning I down walked to St John's to celebrate the Eucharist with a dozen people. A stranger in the congregation told me afterwards that he was visiting from Latvia. He sat quietly on the front row,  standing at the appropriate moments, and refused the offer of a service book to follow. A bit like me when I'm abroad, and not confident about joining in the congregational responses aloud, if I'm unsure about reading them and pronouncing them properly. The structure of the Eucharist is after all familiar enough for people with a traditional Christian background. He spoke reasonable English, and I think I have seen him in church before, so there may be more to his story than is apparent on the surface.

Clare went into town to do some shopping, and called into St John's city Parish church to see if there was a morning service she could attend. She was surprised and disappointed to discover there was no Eucharist on this particular high day. No special service is added into the regular menu of offerings. In some European countries this is a public holiday, but everywhere it seems to be losing its place as a religious observance. 

Did Vatican II reforms accelerate the process by acknowledging the trend, and making full provision for it in the Sunday liturgy following? I noticed in the on-line Roman Breviary that today is marked as no more than the sixth Thursday in Easter-tide, and if custom dictates, it can be observed as the Solemnity of the Ascension, and next Sunday's readings used. There's probably a set of options so you don't have to read the same ones on Sunday as on Thursday. Even if we think many Roman liturgical innovations are worth adopting, the point of the reformation was daring to think and act differently as a church. The church has gone along with the secularisation of most religious holidays. What good has it done, apart from greater convenience I wonder? 

Fortunately, Llandaff Cathedral was offering an evening Solemn Eucharist, at a suitable time for folk to get home from work, eat and turn up on time. So that was where we went to together later in the day, and rejoiced in the singing of an early Mozart Missa Brevis, Psalm and Anthem with loud organ accompanying rousing hymns, suitable for this early summer fiesta, and traditionally Anglican. There were fifty in the congregation and as many again in choir with the Cathedral Consort singers, servers and priests. The recently installed Canon Chancellor Jan van der Lely preached, a different refreshing voice adding diversity to the core team at the heart of the Cathedral's ministry to city and diocese. We are most fortunate to live just twenty minutes walk away from here. It's a splendid complement to living and worshipping regularly in a lively grass-roots urban parish.

  

A feat of organisation

I celebrated the Eucharist with five others this morning. As it's half term, several regulars were away. We were expecting an ex-colleague of Clare's and his family for lunch, but they had to cancel at the last minute, so we ate half of the special vegan recipe quiche Clare cooked to try out for the occasion, and will be able to enjoy the other half later in the week, since it proved to be a success.

After a siesta, there was work to do on preparing the orders of service for next weeks funerals, then I went into town and took a few more photos of the St David's site, as the very last bay of the building had been reduced to half its height since yesterday, and the last section of scaffolding surrounding it was being dismantled. A huge mound of rubble remains to be cleared, but I noticed when I peeked through the gate at the east end of the site that half has already been cleared to ground level.

Quietly, each working day a fleet of lorries plies discreetly to and fro, slipping into the stream of city buses using the narrow streets north of Wood Street as their turning circle and stop-over spot when changing drivers. Despite occasional hiccups and delays, the bus services out of the city centre keep running, and demolition detritus keeps moving away to landfill, an impressive feat of organisation. A couple of weeks more and the site will be flat and empty, ready for turning into a public open space with trees and paving. Then perhaps, work on the new bus station will start in earnest.

In the evening, we watched a S4C programme of highlights from the Urdd Eisteddfod performances of the day. Hundreds of children from Welsh language schools all over Wales, mostly in small groups, enthusiastically singing their hearts out with expressive shining eyes. What a delight!

Wood Street days

This morning I had a clinic visit, and did the heavy part of this week's shopping, as re-stocking a few bulk items was necessary. In the afternoon, I went into town and took photos of the St David's House demolition, which is almost complete. The entirety of the new HMRC building is now visible, and part of its next door neighbour, the Media Wales offices. Once the site is fully cleared there will be 150 yards open public space in front of these prestigious buildings. 

The place north of Wood Street, called Temperance Town was once a slummy Victorian residential area, near the newly built Cardiff General Station. It was on land freed by the diversion of the river Taff, according to a plan devised by Brunel. The wartime blitz took its toll, and remaining houses were razed by commercial redevelopment in the early sixties. Near the river on the train station side, was a fine 'Arts and Crafts' Tractarian church, St Dyfrig's designed by J D Sedding, built 1895-1920. 

I remember seeing it as a student when returning home by train from Bristol. By that time its congregation was tiny, and its Vicar doubled as a student chaplain. It was declared redundant and demolished in 1969, the site having been acquired during construction of an improved road bridge over the Taff. All the sixties buildings are now gone, replaced by the Central Square redevelopment which I have been photo documenting for the past four years. Three complete make-overs of this area in the past hundred and sixty years, and such a wealth of forgotten stories of Cardiff's working class and in this instance, the church's mission to them. Wood Street also had a big Congregational Church, and three schools serving the population.

Photo mission accomplished, yet again, I took a 63 bus out to Danescourt for a bereavement visit in preparation for a funeral next Monday, and walked back to Llandaff to catch a bus rather than wait 25 minutes at the nearest bus stop.

I then had a second funeral preparation to deal with, for a service on Tuesday next, but this time by phone call only, and no prior meeting. This is usually due to physical distance, but on this occasion it was more a matter of distance between the next of kin and the departed. As a result, wasn't easy to acquire any learn anything concrete about the life of the departed to use in the service. It's necessary to accept the trust granted to do the right thing, whatever the circumstances and the story that is or isn't to be told.

Historic anomaly

Another Bank Holiday Monday, a bright and sunny day, perfect for a walk to the far west side of the Parish to visit a couple whose one year old son I will be baptizing at St Luke's in a month's time. Both are busy young professionals and this was the best opportunity we could arrange to meet for a briefing. It was nice to discover that both of them come from churchgoing families. 

They were married three years ago in the 12 century chapel of St Pierre, near Chepstow, a place where I remember celebrating Holy Communion according the the 1662 Book of Common Prayer in the days when I worked for USPG and helped in local churches on weekends when I wasn't away preaching. 

St Pierre was a chapel of ease belonging to the mediaeval manor of the same name, in the Parish of Mathern. It's now a prestigious golf club. It was one of a few Church in Wales churches which didn't in those days adopt the new service book, calling on the legal right to retain the old liturgy as long as the church committee approved. I wonder if it's still in use there?

I got back in time for lunch. We intended to go out down the Bay to visit the Urdd Eisteddfod, but we never got around to it, as both of us pottered around with other things to do.

We're currently being hit by robo-scam calls as I call them, threats to have broadband disconnected and this one offering a press button menu of several options, all of which probably are expensive to activate. These seem to be voice activated, and if you pick up and say nothing the rest of the call message isn't triggered. The number on the dial display points to a Glasgow exchange, and several different numbers get used. The scammers use genuine but redundant numbers in the i/d displayed by the device they use.

We get about half a dozen calls a day, between nine and six. TalkTalk offers a reporting service to get the numbers blocked, but it's actually quite an inconvenience to do this since these keep changing. We could deploy the call filtering service TalkTalk offers, but I'm not sure about the impact of this on occasional legitimate callers. It's bound to be annoying, so we'll have done no more than shift our annoyance to someone else.
   

Emergency stand-in

After breakfast this morning I had an email from Emma, asking if I could celebrate Mass at St Luke's and then do a baptism at St Catherine's. She'd spent six hours in the night with one year old Ned in A&E at the Heath - a worrying painful rash following tonsillitis a few days ago, and no idea what it was. Poor boy was inconsolable and clinging to his mother. I was pleased that I was free to be asked, and had an hour and a half to get a sermon together, and walk over to St Luke's in good time, since Clare had the car in Dinas Powis. 

The challenge would be getting back to St Catherine's, meeting the baptismal party and getting things ready for 12.30 start. I learned that Clare was returning for the St Catherine's Eucharist, and arranged with her to pick me up by car and ferry me over. Thankfully it all worked perfectly.

There were only three dozen communicants at St Luke's in a church that holds two hundred. People stand around the walls of the nave to receive Communion, which sort of works when there's a large number, but doesn't feel right with so few. Instead of gathering for Communion, if feels as if people are scattering. Changing liturgical habit is notoriously hard however, as I recall from my first Curacy,  in Caerphilly. We had a tin tabernacle mission church that held fifty. It usually hosted 6-8 people. They'd all sit in the same places as they had since childhood, scattered about the church, resentful if they were begged to move. St James' Tredegarville was like that too, until circumstances forced a move for the 12-15 congregation into the choir stalls, once the nave was set up for other purposes. Neither church was sustainable, neither survived despite the best pastoral care offered to them.

There were about forty in the congregation at St Catherine's for the baptism of a one year old boy, who was wide awake, alert, following everything with big wondrous eyes. At the baptism rite, when I had given the customary blessing with arms extended, the child waved his arms in the air like wings, perhaps imitating my gesture. Everyone was charmed and laughed fondly. A delightful conclusion to an unexpectedly active morning. 

I expected to feel drained of energy after lunch, as I have on previous occasions, and surprised that I wasn't. Last Wednesday's acupuncture session seems to have done me a power of good. Martin and Chris invited us to lunch, as Chris' parents are visiting from Canada. I was good to see them again both looking well and enjoying a change of scene. Martin is Newport Mayor's Chaplain this year and getting to know some of local councillors. Another guest was Kate, a Ward Councillor, and very much a kindred spirit. As ever, the food was amazing and I had to be careful to resist over-eating, as I certainly suffer for it if I do these days.

Urdd showcase

The afternoon Clare went to Dinas Powis to spend the night with her colleague Jacquie, whose late husband Russell's funeral is to be held in the Wenallt Chapel at Thornhill Crematorium next Saturday morning. I accompanied her in the car as far as the outskirts of Penarth, then walked from there down through the Marina to the Barrage.

The tide was right out, and the sea lock was in operation, for the benefit of a few yachts and fishing boats. I stopped and took photos, and found myself transported to far off places by the sound of the lock gates closing and opening, the roar and scent of  fresh water expelled into the sea. Whether it was the Vienna locks on the Danube or Iffezheim am Rhine, it's the same experience. I just love that environment, and look forward to another cruise when I can travel again. Either on the Duoro or the Rhone, hopefully.

Plas Roald Dahl is now fully occupied with Pavilions and pop up fast food places, ready for the start of the Urdd Eisteddfod running all through half term week from the opening concert tomorrow night. A wonderful fiesta of gifted youth, keen to sing and dance and recite in public. It's marvellous that entrance to events and exhibitions on the 'Maes' is free, as it was for the National Eisteddfod last summer. you just pay to get into the Millennium Centre for performances and concerts staged therein. It's a credit to the City Council to invest in Welsh Arts and Culture in this way.

When I arrived home, there was a messing on the answering machine from cousin Ivor, from whom I have heard nothing for over a year. I knew he'd been in hospital with diabetes related illness, and had been deteriorating due to self neglect. I wrote to him at the time, aware of the difficult I might have at calling a mobile phone at his bedside. In fact, I wasn't sure if I had the right number as he'd changed or lost a phone previously and hadn't kept kept the number.

I called him back, pleased to find that I did have the right number, for future reference. He'd gone through a long spell of rehabilitation with success, and is now back at home. Best of all, he's finally writing the biography of his architectural mentor and role model Leslie Martin, something he's been promising himself to get on with ever since he retired, but never got around to. Already he's half way through the writing stage, loving the task and finding renewed enthusiasm for what he does well. Becoming a grandfather this year was a big boost to his spirits. Sarah his daughter has followed in her father's footsteps and qualified as an architect after a first class degree in pottery, and she's already producing work he delights in. Nice to have some good news for a change.
 

In the evening, I watched the last double episode of Canadian crimmie 'Cardinal', with a somewhat predictable ending. The landscape is a beautiful backdrop to the drama, but its seasons and weather don't play a part in this 'back of the beyond' story, as happens in BBC Wales' 'Hinterland' or 'Rebecka Martenson: Arctic Murders', to name two series that get it right.

  

Failure acknowledged, but what have we learned?

News came this morning of Theresa May's resignation as Prime Minister. This was bound to happen, given the multiple rejections of the deal with the EU negotiated by her government team. She put her heart and soul into efforts to persuade Parliament that it's the only deal possible, but all this did was reveal the depths of intransigence and divisions among parliamentarians throughout the House. This has been coming for weeks, and the media hasn't been slow to speculate already about candidates to succeed her. 

As soon as her speech was over, as tributes from political leaders to her time in office were issued, the clamour of speculation about her successor soon overshadowed all else. The name of media darling Boris Johnston as most popular candidate was predominant. It feels as if the BBC and some sections of the press are lobbying on his behalf. Or is this just a public schoolboy journalism game to set someone in a pedestal in order the try and knock them off it?

Britain's social, cultural and ideological divisions have been exposed by the brexit affair. It's clear the Conservative and Labour parties will suffer badly in the European elections from the inability to reach a consensus or compromise in shaping relationships with the E.C. The political middle ground  has been laid waste by failures which are not entirely the fault of Parliamentarians. The constant clamour and pressure from news media commentariat and the demand for instant reaction to every question thrust upon them creates an unhealthy environment for reasoned discussion and reflection by our elected representatives. It takes time to come to a common mind. More time than politicians may get these days.

Clare had an in-service training session during the day, leaving me to fend for myself, as she had to leave early. It gave me the chance to try a day with a loose dressing instead of the usual plaster, after a night without one. The wound is at last becoming as manageable as it was just before the second round of surgery, and this makes it possible for me to manage on my own. I went into town to take photos of the last phase of the St David's House demolition, then walked home through the fields of Bute Park up to Blackweir. There's still about 20 metres of the building standing, and scaffolders were at work again dismantling another section of the screen behind which the penultimate bay of the old building is being torn down. I should think the remnants of the building will be levelled by this time next week.

   

Electoral farce

Yesterday, I celebrated the Eucharist with seven others at St Catherine's in the morning. I had a phone call when I returned about officiating at a funeral the week after next, at the Vale Crematorium. Our friend Russell's funeral is there on the Saturday morning just before. A double slot has been booked for this, as the funeral ritual of the Anthroposophical Christian Community calls for more time. After this the Wake is being held in the Penarth Pier Pavilion. I imagine this idea would have given him much pleasure. 

After lunch I walked to an acupuncture treatment at the Natural Health Clinic, and then a walk around Pontcanna Fields. Recently, I've been feeling drained of energy, and walking for an hour has been an effort. This kind of treatment makes a difference I find, as it works on stimulating kidney function in this instance, and this seems to help disperse low level toxins in the blood which sap energy. It reminds me to put into practice lessons learned from Tai Chi / Chi Gung about massaging the kidneys and drinking lots of water. Things I'm at risk of forgetting. 

This morning, I celebrated the Eucharist at St John's for a dozen people, including Emma, who was pleased to sit in the congregation, saving her energies to officiate at a wedding following the service. On my way from church to the clinic for a wound dressing, I kept seeing unusually smartly dressed men in suits and ties, and women in glamorous outfits looking conspicuous among the everyday mix of shoppers and workers about their business. I wondered if this sight aroused curiosity among more mundane pedestrians?

The European elections take place today. Clare and I dispatched our postal votes a week ago. News talk is all of the likely majority of seats being taken by Farage's brexit party, a single issue movement taking seats they have no intention of occupying, but are dedicated to removing from the political map due to the UK's withdrawal from the EU. If further delays leads to the newly elected taking their seats, no doubt their presence and behaviour will end up causing offence due to the contempt they exhibit for European institutions. This fills me with disgust and shame.

In the evening another engaging episode of 'Berlin Station' on More Four. The story-line concerns the rise and rise of a populist far right party in Germany, encouraged by subversive conspirators inside and outside the country. The CIA is monitoring the situation and unofficially getting involved in trying to forestall a terrorism element in the equation, but elements in their own government may also be involved in the conspiracy. It's complex, but also very contemporary, written in and for the Trump era, even if he doesn't get mentioned by name. I think series two is quite an improvement on series one, which I found complex and hard to follow.

  

Big issues not to take for granted

A good start to the day with the first of this year's Reith Lectures on Radio 4 after breakfast. Recently retired Supreme Court member and historian, Lord Jonathan Sumption is examining the changing relationship between Law and Politics, with clarity and thoroughness. He argues that the tendency to over legislate and then to litigate on all sorts matters of concern is a symptom of a growing weakness in the political sphere, reflected in an inability to reach consensus, exercise discretion or debate in an open manner in which people on all sides may indeed learn from each other and alter their positions. It's very relevant indeed given the current parliamentary crisis over brexit.

It was interesting to hear what he had to say about the Supreme Court being castigated by the editor of the Daily Mail as 'Enemies of the People', declaring war on democracy, in ruling on the necessity of a Parliamentary vote to trigger Article 50 to initiate the EU departure process legally, in November 2016. Historic precedent for dealing with such attacks on the country's highest legislating body is the responsibility of the government's Attorney General, issuing a public rebuke in defence of the rule of law and the independence of the judiciary. The Attorney General at the time was silent in the face of media aggression and pretension to speak for the whole electorate. 

It's an example of the way broadcast media and the press are far too influential on political processes in Britain. This narrative has been familiar to me since I read John Simpson's history of journalists and the news media from the Boer War onward a few years back. Freedom of speech is one thing, but without moderating criticism and discussion it risks becoming a a license to control affairs, and this invariably benefits the few and not the many. I look forward to hearing how Lord Sumption thinks it's possible to redress this critical public concern, now that Britain and Europe faced a worrying return of extremist and populist politics. Democracy is under critical scrutiny and it can all to easily be undermined. It cannot be taken for granted.

Another issue which caught my attention yesterday and got me thinking was listening to a discussion about gender bias in medical research. A lot has been said in recent years about the disproportionately large number of men over women in science, and the scandalous gender pay gap running through most employment sectors, but these weren't the issues being considered. Look at a standard anatomy textbook - the archetypal human image is that of the male body, possibly accompanied by a vignette of a female pelvis and reproductive organs. Why not male and female archetypes show side by side? 

There's a hidden assumption that for the most part male and female bodies are similar. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the field of drug testing. Women and men can react differently to different medications, due to variations in body chemistry. Yet the majority of testing is done, and has been done on male subjects, not on an equal number of males and females. Treating them as if they can be presumed equivalent is deeply flawed methodology with a long history. 

I daresay in practice there is a body of knowledge and experience relied upon by those who prescribe and dispense medicine, but this hidden bias calls into question the quality of scientific evidence taken for granted. Thalidomide was thought safe to use as a sleeping pill. The genetic damage inflicted on unborn children wasn't foreseen. Drug testing has become much more rigorous and licensing new products is done with much greater precaution today. No doubt scientific methods have gone through many an overhaul in decades past, but questioning and evaluating procedures used forever remains an unfinished business, much like all good things in life we value and rely on. This too, we cannot take for granted.

  

Lucky moments

This morning, Clare went off early to the gym, and I did some of the weekly shopping on the way to an early clinic appointment. After lunch and a siesta, I caught the 61 bus into town intending to walk to the Bay Wetland nature reserve along the Taff Embankment footpath. This took me along Wood Street to start with, and gave me an opportunity to take a few photos of St David's House demolition, now about 90% complete with three large machines working, two of them on site clearance, and one using its thirty metre long arm to tear down the building's reinforced concrete structure. 

Work had come to a halt temporarily. I identified over the traffic the distinctive but strange sound of a scaffolder working at loosening joints with a power tool. During demolition, building remnants are enclosed by a protective framework of scaffolding covered in plastic sheeting, but how scaffolding is taken down as the work proceeded had never occurred to me. Then, I spotted movement at the top corner of the remaining structure, and aimed my camera upwards in that direction. To my surprise and delight a little later, I discovered I had photos of a scaffolder at work in the most vulnerable place you can think of, close to the pneumatic iron jaws of the demolition machine. Amazing luck at at distance of 120 feet. I can only hope he gets paid well! 

My walk to the Bay Wetland nature reserve was rewarded with the sign of a grebe carrying its new chick on its back - a rather fuzzy photo - and a coot with three chicks exploring the extent of their first home in one of the ponds.

Needless to say, it was well nigh impossible to get all three chicks and parent into frame at the same time, let alone in sharp focus. Just glad I caught a glimpse of this moment another year.

   

Post Pilgrimage Questions

We attended the Parish Eucharist at St Catherine's this morning. Rhys presided and preached, and Emma was present, having celebrated earlier at St John's. She had a Baptism afterwards, and by the time we were gathering in the church hall after the service, a crowd of smartly dressed people were gathering outside in the grounds, arriving early for a twelve thirty start. 

Rhys spoke about the clergy school experience in Santiago from which they returned on Friday, also about life as pilgrimage, and about next year's centenary of the disestablished Church in Wales diocese of Llandaff. Santiago is likely to have been a much more intense experience for participants than Oxford because it was away from Britain, in a place steeped with religious history and fervour. It may well take those who took part a while to digest what they received. How will this impact on the ministry they offer in future, I wonder?

When I was working, clergy school was a positive experience of worship and sharing together, albeit usually held in Oxford. It's good and necessary that professional clergy should have time to review their ministries and bond together in this way. Given there are so many volunteers, both layfolk and retired clerics, also exercising ministry in partnership with full timers, I wonder what could ever be done to embrace them all in a process which lasts several days, in order to achieve the same ends? 

Bishop June wants us all to explore Pilgrimage further under her Diocesan Vision headlines; 'Telling a Joyful Story', 'Growing the Kingdom of God' and 'Building a Greater Capacity for Good'. To me it seems a bit vague. I'm unsure how this will translate into practical reality. Where do key activities of Listening and Dialogue come into the picture of a church renewing itself for mission? Are we still too concerned about what's left of our former selves as a traditional mainstream church, and not looking outwards nearly enough? Are we really hearing what's being said to us by people searching for a living faith but so far disappointed by our concerns and teaching? How does our church earn again the right to be heard when it comes to speaking of the things of God? 

  

A good life's end

This morning, as we were finishing a breakfast of vegan pancakes, the phone rang. It was a friend of Clare's telling us about the death yesterday of our friend Russell aged 94. He was taken ill while out in his vegetable patch. He went indoors and slipped away peacefully. He'd been planting seeds and transplanting seedlings with a friend who helps him maintain the beautiful hillside garden around his house. It's a feast of rich colour at this time of year, as well as producing food for them. He often spoke to me about the divine mystery embedded in nature, what I'd call 'The world as sacrament'. There could be no better place or occasion to take his leave of this life.

It's just three weeks since he and Jacquie came and had lunch with us. He's been frail for some time, yet his mind was active and alert, conscious that his days were numbered, but still looking forward, questioning all that's seems to be going wrong with our world.  That day he gave me a book. He'd bought a dozen copies to share, regarding it as an important contribution to addressing impending global crisis. 'Team Human' by Douglas Rushkoff is about  the malaise of technologically induced social fragmentation and the need to re-fashion society around ideals of teamwork and collaborative partnership in which all are truly equal and power is shared. I look forward to reading it.

Most of Russell's life was spent working on team and community building, as an adult educator and engineer working in management. This was driven by his radical inquisitive faith in God, and a deep sense of the spiritual reality which pervades all things in this world as well as above and beyond it. Early in adult life, his questioning faith led to him being pushed away from a rather traditional conservative protestant church, towards the investigation of Rudolf Steiner's teaching. Wherever he found himself, he started an Anthroposophical Study group. He was keen to share his journey, but even keener to encourage others to pursue their own.

Our friendship has endured over the seventeen years since we returned to Wales and Clare became involved in the development of Cardiff Steiner Initiative. Jacquie is a Eurythmist like Clare and they work together in the Fountain School, so it was natural that their spouses should have conversations of their own. He was as practical as he was a thinking man, and gifted artistically also. He will be mourned by a great number of people in the UK, America and Europe whose lives he touched.

At the end of the afternoon we drove over to Dinas Powis to visit Jacquie. I had this idea of planting a lit candle in Russell's vegetable plot to honour the time and place where his passover began. Clare found a small glass lantern jar for a protective container which was suitable. Jacquie was pleased at this suggestion so we went into the garden and installed the light among the emerging seedlings. The words 'Unless a grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies ....' from John's Gospel came to mind, and we pondered on them for a while as we stood there.

We stayed for a while and ate supper with Jacquie and a friend who'd come to stay with her. The fact that his end came swift and peacefully was a surprise if not a disappointment, as if he was in a hurry as Jacquie said. Russell lived, however, ready and well prepared to go. He was used to living with daily pain and suffering, and conscious that any day could be his last. Not really in a hurry to go, he said to me once, but looking forward to the spiritual adventure that lies beyond. That's what I call a good life's end.
  

Toxic consumerism

I celebrated the Eucharist with a dozen people at St John's this morning, then went to the clinic for a dressing. My clinic visits are reducing to three a week now, and if I'm running out of supplies, I can call in during working hours. Healing continues slowly, but it's still quite uncomfortable to sit for any length of time. Even so, already it's better than it was a couple of weeks ago. I look forward to a time when I can get by with just a minimal dressing, as I did for several months at the outset, as that would allow me to look after myself and not need to rely on Clare or a nurse to keep clean and safe. I'd then be able to go to London and see my sister June. It's more than a year since I last visited her.

Following my afternoon siesta I walked over to Victoria Park and back, for a change. Along Romilly Road I picked up a dozen discarded cans and bottles over a half mile distance with three litter bins. It's almost automatic for me to pick up something rolling around on the pavement which others might trip over if they don't notice it. It's the only way I can stop myself being resentful toward those who have no sense of public pride or self control to carry a container as far as a bin. These can be discarded often within yards of a litter bin. It's as if bins are invisible to the guzzling classes. 

What also disturbs me is the number of drink containers, both alcoholic and soft, from which only a few mouthfuls have been taken before abandonment. Was the person thirsty or not? Did the drink's taste not meet expectation? Is this a kind of consumer sickness, with an impact beyond the individual? 

Cutbacks in municipal budgets have led to reduction to the services delivered by the Council's Waste Management department when it comes to street cleaning. One day, on my walk back from the clinic I chatted with a couple of crew members emptying litter bins and tidying King's Road. Two workers are now doing what used to be done by three, and crews are expected to cover more ground as well. They may have to go without a lunch break to complete their target schedule. The city centre is well looked after from day to day, but less so the outlying residential areas.

One thing I find comforting is learning that some other older people also pick up litter in the street on their daily walkabouts. Neighbourhood groups and friends of public green spaces also organise weekend litter picks too. If politics and the economy fail to provide services which help to maintain civic pride, community voluntary action is necessary to fend off demoralisation and indifference to the environment. But the heart of the matter is the pernicious change in personal behaviour wrought by modern consumerism, and it's poisoning individuals (due to the impact on health of over eating and drinking), as well as the public domain and the common good.

Reflecting on life of pilgrimage

Yesterday was a day to do the weekly grocery shopping, and enjoy sitting out in our sun-trap of a garden, in the afternoon, as more flowers blossom in the spring warmth. How fortunate we are! I've made the effort to follow tweets from clergy I know at the Diocesan Clergy School in Santiago de Compostela to know what they are doing. Best of all, retired Dean of Durham Michael Sadgrove is there giving a series Bible Studies on Pilgrimage themes and posting them on his blog. I'm so glad that these are not just available to clergy but to anyone interested, wanting to share indirectly in this experience. You can find these addresses and more of his sermons here at his blog site. They are long, but well worth the effort of reading.

This set me thinking about the pilgrimages I have made at different stages of my life. When I was a student, the Russian Orthodox classic 'Way of a Pilgrim' was a seminal book for me. I visited Llandaff, as a teenager, then Glastonbury, Canterbury and Taize as a Uni student, then Walsingham, St David's and Rome in my early ministry years, then Damascus and Aleppo (in search of Ephraim the Syrian). plus Jerusalem and Bethlehem in mid-life. All the earlier ones were made with groups of people. Those in the MIddle East I made alone, but went to stay with Christians living there. 

In retirement I've spent time travelling to places and passing time in locum ministry with Christians wherever I am sent. Early on this meant travelling to parishes within the Diocese, thirty of them in total. Then living in Spain, pastoring during interregnums. This has been a kind of pilgrimage, engaging not so much with sacred stories and places, but with 'living stones'. I look at sacred edifices wherever I go, with pleasure, but rejoice not just in great ancient architecture, but in the ministry of welcome they offer to visitors. Last year in Malaga for Semana Santa was one of the strongest experiences of my life, journeying through the story of Christ's passion on the city streets, juxtaposing the story with everyday life. What would I make of the Camino de Santiago, I wonder, now that I am so familiar with Spanish Catholicism, its history and culture? What would my journey be like? Where would it start, or end?

This morning I celebrated the Eucharist at St Catherine's, and revisited the story of St Matthias with a congregation of seven. In the afternoon I walked over to Tesco's on Western Avenue in search of some file folders as I strive to get my domestic admin tidier. Earlier I spent an hour shredding bank statements up to the time I retired. All the utility bills are there, but jumbled together, and this adds to the effort of referring to them when needed even if it is only once in a few years.

We had a six monthly water rate bill this morning. It's increased by twenty pounds, not because of an increase in prices, but due to an increase in consumption, caused by all the extra linen washing that managing my ailment has generated. And when I think of all the medical waste produced from daily domestic dressing changes, these days thanks to sterile disposable everything, it makes me realise how many aspects of illness are resource hungry in this day and age. As was ever thus I suppose.

Michael Sadgrove's third talk was about Pilgrimage and Pain. It resonated with me because of what I have been through this past nine months. I recognise with gratitude that everyday coping, trying to live a normal life and exercise a ministry with pain, discomfort, vulnerability inconvenience, relying heavily on others, has taught me things I would never have understood before, or just taken for granted. I'm so much more grateful to be alive and occasionally useful than I might ever have been before. When I'm really better, it would do me good to take time out and re-count my blessings properly, but where and how?

   

The art of interpretation

I had a funeral at St John's this morning with about eighty people present, unusual for a ninety year old, except that this was a woman with a large extended family. They didn't seem to know much of her early life and it was only just before the funeral that someone doing the funeral paperwork let it be known that she had been born in the large corner house opposite the north porch entrance to the church. It's been divided into apartments for a long time but may have once been a maternity home. That was a surprise to everyone, when I mentioned it in paying tribute to her.

The funeral ended with burial in Western Cemetery in bright sunshine, accompanied by birdsong, As I was waiting for the hearse to arrive, I noticed in the burial plot close to where we were parked an unusual headstone. It was about a third taller than usual, and the top section was carved and painted into the form of outspread wings, not angel wings, but rather the form of Dumbo, Disney's baby elephant in the 1941 animated movie, whose ears were so big he finds he can use them to fly. 

It's the grave of a child I thought, but it was the tombstone of a 22 year old woman - sure someone's child - I imagine there's a story behind this choice. It wouldn't happen in a churchyard, where forms and images on monumental stones are closely controlled, but this is a municipal cemetery and its occupants reflect a far wider range of beliefs and tastes, some of which make me stop and think. The Dumbo story is a sideways take on the American Dream - you can make it you try - this unfortunate creature finds he can transform what others consider a liability (oversize ears) into an asset (wings). Is this a non-theologian's way of finding meaning in a premature death? You'd need to talk to the bereaved family to find out. 

Funerary monuments, in church and in churchyards until relatively recently used symbolism from the Classical world associated with grief and mourning. Sometimes the sculpted head or even full recumbent figure of the deceased as well as images of saints or angels praying were above a tomb. Instead these days, photographic images of the deceased can be etched into stone or rendered in an enamelled vignette and added to the memorial. Churchyards, at least in Britain, and maybe also in other protestant countries, tend to be more limited in what is displayed, not nearly as diverse and exotic as secular graveyards, or for that matter, mainstream Catholic cemeteries in Western Europe. It's all an aspect of how we identify ourselves and where we ultimately belong in the human story.

I had a clinic visit after lunch, and much to our relief was finally able to re-stock medical supplies. My clinic visits are reducing to three days in seven now that healing is progressing well, and often I can get by with a dressing change once a day, which Clare can do at home. We're back now to where we were before the second op five weeks ago. We're still waiting to hear when I'll be called for the next round of surgery, which may or may not be the last. We'll see.

I went into town late afternoon and mooched around the shops for an hour before heading out to say Mass at St Dyfrig and St Samson's Grangetown. I was standing in for Dr David who, like the rest of Llandaff diocesan licensed clergy are visiting Santiago de Compostella for a five day clergy school. Already festive tweets and pictures are being posted from #LlandaffinSantiago. Despite misgivings I have about them all going to Spain to think together about the meaning of pilgrimage, I can only pray this will be a blessed experience for them all.

It was the Parish Mother's Union Corporate Communion occasion this evening, Afterwards a group of half a dozen of them were going out for what they called 'a belated Christmas meal together'. I liked that. We were ten of us altogether, and I used the next day's liturgy of St Matthias the Apostle to mark the occasion. Any excuse to talk about a missionary saint and martyr, that's me!

First sighting

The highlight of a slow and lazy Saturday was an afternoon walk along the Taff for tea in Llandaff. On the river just above Blackweir, we had this year's first sighting of a Mallard brood. Ten tiny ducklings out on the water swimming with mum, with dad further downstream hanging out with another drake. That's two weeks earlier that my first sighting last year. I wasn't terribly pleased with the photo I took, hand held at forty metres. Better luck next time, hopefully.

I watched the first two episodes of a new Canadian crimmie series of 'Cardinal' on BBC Four in the evening. The landscape setting is beautiful, but the story line pretty grim. The sort of thing you watch if there's nothing better to do, and you've seen all the repeat episodes of NCIS several times over. A new series of Inspector Montalbano episodes is being advertised as coming soon. Now that is something to look forward to.

This morning I celebrated and preached at St Catherine's, which I enjoyed. I was disappointed to have missed yesterday's churchyard open day organised by RSPB with local entomologists showing how richly populated the terrain is with different kinds of insects, making it a paradise for birds as well. It was very pleasing to hear that over a hundred people attended. 

Although I'm able to function quite well when I need to these days, this is often followed by a bout of tiredness that's hard to fight. This accounted for my slow start yesterday, missing the churchyard event I'd wanted to attend, and this afternoon, taking an extra long siesta instead of going out and enjoying the lovely sunshine we're having at the moment. I feel a bit like an old phone with a battery which discharges more rapidly than when it was first new. I hope this due to so much energy being taken up by the body repairing itself, as apart from this I'm feeling well. After all it's not much to complain about really, when I think how terrible last autumn was..

  

Meeting the bird man of Pontcanna

I had an early clinic visit today, from which I came away with a different kind of dressing to try out, as regular stocks have still not been replenished, well maybe later is possible I suppose. I feel sorry for the nurses. I went to Berry's the butcher's in search of some fresh chicken to cook and freeze and came away with four huge legs, more than I expected to get, but it'll be good for 6-8 meals and fulfil the recommendation that I eat meat to promote tissue building. True or not it makes a change for me on a semi-vegan pescatarian diet these days.

Once I got home I realised I'd forgotten to visit the bank as intended, so I had to go out again, and once out, remembered those other shopping items which slipped my mind earlier. We make a list and keep it on the fridge, but usually I forget to look at it. I should make a to do list note on my phone, but can't be bothered. I make an effort to train my memory, which works well enough, as long as I'm not distracted.

I cooked the chicken pieces before lunch. Clare came back from her gym session with two big fresh tuna steaks, one of our favourites, so the chicken was left to cool before freezing later in the day, and we had dish for lunch instead. 

Later, I completed my postal voting form for the European election,  I decided to vote Lib Dem, to support candidates of the party that took an unequivocally clear pro-european stance as a matter of policy for many years. I popped our ballot envelopes in the posting box on my way to walk around Pontcanna Fields.

On the riverside path, a young woman seated on a bench enjoying the sun greeted me, as if she knew me. I think I recognised her, but am unsure from which part of my life. We chatted about the pleasures of the environment and bird life along the river. I started to tell her about 'Bird Man' whom I see regularly in the distance feeding the crows.

Within seconds the man himself appeared on the path, surrounded by a dozen or more birds, chasing the last remnants from his feed bag. As he passed, we engaged him in conversation. He told us that he walks both sides of the river daily and the crows spot him from afar and seek him out,. They recognise him even if he's riding a bike, regardless of what he's wearing or which bag he is carrying. I was so glad to have met him face to face at last.

As I approached Blackweir Bridge, I was thrilled to glimpse several swifts high above, wheeling around aerobatically as they fed on insects. Just to think, these birds would have been making their way up the Iberian Peninsula from Africa a few weeks ago. Summer is a-cumen in!

Seen from the other side

I celebrated the Eucharist at St Catherine's yesterday morning, using the altar in the Lady Chapel for the first time, an eastward celebration too, which the congregation of eight enjoyed it seems. Today, I celebrated also at St John's.

On both days I had a nursing appointment, just as the clinic reopened after lunchtime. Yet again this month the shorter working week due to another Bank Holiday has led to disruption in the clinic medical supply chain. We're getting by at home as we've kept a small assortment of dressings of different sizes left over from previous occasions, just in case, so we can try out alternative methods. 

Thankfully I need a change less often as healing progresses, and can even manage with just light cover to allow the air to reach it, and encourage drying out. It must be difficult for the nursing staff, however, as some of their regular patients heal very slowly, if at all, due to the impact of diabetes on them. I complain on times that it's all taking far too long to get better, but must admit just how fortunate I am compared to many others.

This afternoon I was driven to Thornhill to officiate at Sheila's funeral. My driver told me that he's only recently started a part time job with Summers funeralcare, having retired from working in IT at the National Statistics Office  in Newport. What a change of profession! I took with me the beeswax candle given me by Laura to light during the service. Clare ingeniously fixed it in a small glass tea-light candle holder, using a tea-light to provide a stable base. During the welcome, I lit it and said a brief prayer intending to explain its provenance to the congregation of two dozen later. Sheila's sons John and Paul spoke about their mother. Paul mentioned his mother's friendship with Laura and explained the candle, so I didn't need to. 

The funeral ahead of us in the Briwnant Chapel overran by fifteen minutes. As we waited to take over the chapel, I was astonished by the number of people who came out of the chapel after that service, perhaps double the number of seats, and some people stood outside as well. No wonder the delay was quite so long. Our service took thirty five of the forty five minute time slot. I was bothered that we should pass on the discourtesy of overrunning, but it turned out the funeral after ours was running late, because of traffic conditions.

Last night and again tonight BBC Four's Storyville series screened a two part documentary which was recorded live over the past two years of brexit negotiations in and the office of Guy Verhofstadt, former Prime Minister of Belgium, now a key European Parliamentarian. He heads the team on the EU side of the process. The documentary was remarkable for its openness and candour, showing the disciplined effort required to maintain a unified approach with 27 national governments, the European Parliament and Commission, while the British approach from the outset seemed undisciplined, chaotic, lacking clarity. I guess this is a reflection of the Prime Minister's strapline 'Brexit means brexit' a phrase with which anyone can conjure whatever meaning they choose, guaranteeing no consensus, despite parliamentary efforts to create one which everyone can own.

It was good that Michel Barnier was filmed speaking with clarity and passion about the European project to build a community which is peaceful prosperous and able to live with differences, admitting it's a constant work in progress. He insists on maintaining due respect for British political endeavours on the part of EU despite politicians and negotiators being bewildered by all the chopping and changing and the inability to reach a UK consensus on what they want and where they want to do. It sheds even more bad light on flight from moderation in Britain over the past decade. To be seen as other see us. Will British political leaders watch this and take a hard look at what they've let the populists get away with these past five years? And repent of their weakness and folly.

After Storyville, the latest episode of 'Berlin Station' was live on More Four. It gets more layered and interesting as it goes along. Worth staying up late for. Oh, I nearly forgot. Our European Parliamentary election postal ballot papers arrived today. I can only hope and pray that people will show by their voting that the last few years have been a nightmarish mistake.

   

Generational change

This morning, after my wound clinic visit, I walked to the nearby offices of Stone and Ham funeral directors to meet a bereaved family and discuss the service I'm to take on Monday next for a ninety year old local lady who was the mother of eight children, sixteen grandchildren and ten great grandchildren. It's interesting to consider the contrast between her and another nonagenarian widow whose funeral I have this week, with just two children and two grandchildren, who started a working life in the family firm at the end of World War two. 

Theirs was a generation when women still had a choice of making a life as home makers and having a large family, or having a family and seeking work only after the essential child rearing years are over. Today it seems to be an economic necessity for husband and wife to work and fit having and raising children into work oriented lives, supported by parents and daytime care. The question of whether this works satisfactorily and is beneficial in terms of health and well being in the long term is to my mind an open question which may take generations to answer. Was there ever such a time when so many people suffer burnout, work related stress or mental health concerns? So many people today are under so much pressure to be productive on several fronts, it takes its toll.

Late afternoon, when the rain had cleared up, I went into town to take photos of the demolition of St David's House, and of the newly restored clock tower of the railway station. Recently, I read a news article about this, pointing out a modest new feature on the facade overlooking Central Square. It's a tiny 'Draig Goch', our Welsh national symbol, fashioned from lead left over from weather cladding the tower with traditional lead. It's tiny, but no doubt generations of telephoto lenses will pick it out, as a special feature of our new public open space, as mine did.

A Linux bank holiday

The bank holiday Monday weather was poor and discouraged us from making the effort to go out anywhere. There wasn't much of interest on telly, so I whiled away the time downloading and trying out different distributions of Linux on the little Acer machine Kath returned to me - Ubuntu, Fedora Manjaro and Mint XFCE. All worked well, but the first two were not as lively as the latter two, as the notebook has only 2GB of RAM which isn't quite enough given demands they make on memory. 

I occupied myself with this, having discovered that the trackpad wasn't recognised when I made the first install of Mint with the Mate desktop. I thought it might be an operating system deficiency, but as the fault is reproduced on each of the distros, I can only conclude it's a hardware fault. I may have knocked the machine stowing in the boot for the journey home, as up until then with WIndows 10 on it, there was no problem. Not that it matters much, as I habitually use a mouse with portable PCs.

In the end, I settled for Mint XFCE for the simple reason that there's a minimal amount to learn. I've been using Mint now for several years, with Mate, Cinnamon and even KDE versions on time. This will do all that I need it to without getting in the way. I wish I had introduced my sister to Mint many years ago. Once she'd got used to the differences with Windows, it would have given her far more confidence and control, and in turn spared me from trying to explain to her so many irrelevant things which distract Windows users from getting the job done.

Llanishen connections

This morning I drove to Llanishen to celebrate the 10.30 Sung Eucharist at St Isan's Parish Church, now in interregnum after the recent retirement of Mike Whitcombe, Vicar for the past 25 years. It's a typical old country church, swallowed into suburban Cardiff a century ago, with a ring of six in the bell tower and surrounded by an ancient churchyard. It's a mainstream church, well organised well attended with a prosperous congregation, popular for weddings. 

The first time I visited St Isan's was for my cousin Christine's wedding 48 years ago. My Uncle Gordon and Auntie Joyce were parishioners. When he died 13 years ago, I attended his funeral there. My only other visit was to preach on behalf of USPG about 35 years ago. It's still quite well attended with a congregation of over sixty, and good small choir which sang a responsorial Gradual Psalm to Gelineau Chant unusually well. The congregation was responsive, and also sang well.

As the church chancel is narrow, and the Communion rail accommodates around eight at a time, the distribution of the Sacrament took longer than I'm used to. Interestingly, the choir quietly sang through an entire Mass setting during this part of the service, which was something of a surprise, but I felt it worked quite well.

A little later than I had expected I left the church after greeting people, and drove to neighbouring Cyncoed for a midday meeting with John and Paul, the two sons of Sheila, whose funeral I'll be taking this week. John, I met last week in UHW. Paul had since then arrived from the USA where he has lived and worked for most of his adult life, without losing his British accent. We chatted for a lot longer than I intended and it was almost two by the time I reached home again, not least because of traffic congestion along Cathedral Road, generated by an afternoon cricket match.

Later, I caught up on the final two episodes of 'Follow the Money', in which the series villain meets his end, and then the last episode of 'Line of Duty', in which I'm pleased to say, I had already spotted the main secretly corrupt cop of this series early on. Hastings the heroic chief inquisitor is revealed to be a flawed man, but not a villain. It's not all over, however, and although it has yet to be written, a sixth series is promised. It's not over until it's over, as the oxymoron goes.

St Fagans May Pole Fiesta

After my clinic visit yesterday morning, I went straight into town to meet briefly with Laura again, before she returns to Romania tomorrow. I was pleased to learn that she had been able to visit the Chapel of Rest where her friend Sheila's body is awaiting her funeral, and pay her last respects. We didn't have long, as I had to go home and get ready to go to Llandough Hospital for my MRI scan, but it was good to have an opportunity to talk once more. 

Clare drove me there and dropped me off. In just over an hour I was finished and waiting for a bus to take me back to Canton on the main road outside the hospital. I learned that I can expect to hear about the scan results in three weeks. I wonder if the surgeon will hear earlier than this?

This morning we drove out to St Fagan's Museum, our first visit for two years. Last year saw the 70th anniversary of its opening. Already a major re-development of the main building was under way, and now it's open, and being touted for a national award, shortlisted with several other museums for their innovative educational work. There's a new entrance hall, large and spacious like an airport departure check-in area, and exhibits upstairs in new and renovated galleries. Whole groups of historic artefacts have been re-located here from the museum in the town centre. It's very impressive and today, on a bank holiday weekend, car parks were almost full and the place was full of families out for the day.

First, we visited an open air arts and crafts fair where I was very much attracted to the work of an unconventional wood turner, Bernard Dite, a one time East Moors steel worker, who uses a lathe and other hand tools to sculpt irregular chunks of wood into a variety of dishes, bowls, vases and flasks, taking advantage of existing flaws, different grains and colours to reveal beautiful patterns which would otherwise never be seen. His artistic creations are refined and some of them extraordinarily lightweight. On impulse, I bought two pieces, one to be a fruit bowl, another for a salad bowl. We might have spent that amount of money on a weekend meal for two, but now we have a feast for the eyes that'll be with us at table every day instead.

On the lawn outside a team of folk dancers and a small band were performing. Later these moved to Gwalia Green, the open area around which many of the historic village shop buildings stand. At two, a May Pole was ceremonially brought in by the men among the dancers, dressed by the women, then erected and danced around for half an hour, drawing many of the younger spectators into the dance. It was such a delight, and the weather was just perfect for it. My photos are here

All of this was an unexpected pleasure. It more than compensated for the bout of stomach cramp that came upon me as we were walking around. Clare had cooked pancakes for breakfast, using a couple of eggs. I didn't think about this when I ate them, and they weren't indigestible, but slowed normal digestive process right down, as my bile duct no longer works with normal efficiency. After half an hour of unpleasant pain and nausea, and drinking a fair amount of water, the sensation passed, and we were able to resume our tour of the grounds, and glimpse some of the new features.

In the evening we went to Chapter Arts to see the movie 'Red Joan', a thought provoking piece about a young scientist who leaked secret atomic research material to the Russians in her twenties, and was finally unmasked in her eighties, based apparently on a true story. Brilliant acting from Judy Dench as the old lady and Sophie Cookson as her younger self. Well with deferring the final double episode of 'Follow the Money' until tomorrow.
    

Publicizing mortality

Today I celebrated the midweek Eucharist at St John 's with a group of nine of the regular faithful, and visited the wound clinic for a dressing and to collect supplies to cover the coming Bank Holiday weekend. Stocks are low, but hopefully tomorrow I'll be able to pick up what was lacking today. How difficult it must be for the community nursing team to keep up with continuing, but always variable needs of scores of patients all year round.

I received an email from Coles of Rumney, one of the local funeral companies, inviting me to attend a coffee morning at their recently opened funeral home in Birchgrove. It's to launch their 'Bereavement Hub', as they call it. I'm quite amused at the way the word 'Hub' has supplanted the word 'Centre' in many social contexts in which people interact with each other for whatever reason. "Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold .." said William Yeats in the last century. Will hubs do any better, I wonder?

The invitations is timed to coincide with 'Dying Matters Awareness Week', something I've not heard of before. Its website speaks in these terms of an association of interested stakeholders:

'We have over 13,000 members, and are actively enlisting those that are committed to supporting changing knowledge, attitudes and behaviours around death and dying. Joining is free, and our members include community groups, healthcare bodies, private individuals and groups representing a range of faiths.'

I imagine this group will include funeral directors, bereavement counsellors, people involved in terminal illness care, perhaps legal professionals involved with will writing and the administration of legacies and estates. As people now live much longer, some prefer not to think about mortality until it's inescapable. Sudden or early death can precipitate next of kin into crisis with scant resources for coping, not knowing who to turn to. Public educational awareness raising to change attitudes has to be a good thing.

Coles's funeral company are making a conscious effort consistent with their mission statement as a business "... not just to care for the dead, but to care for those affected by death. And to help everyone prepare for it." Bravo. Perhaps when I was working full time I would have made the effort to attend, and do some networking. While I'm always happy to help out, I'm content now to leave the networking to others.

May meetings

This morning I celebrated the midweek Eucharist at St Catherine's with nine others. Not only did we remember Saints Philip and James, but also St Mark the Evangelist and St George the Martyr whose feast days were transferred from Easter Week to this week. As there were no weekday services in the Benefice last week it was an opportunity not to forget them.

Then, after popping home for an unusually late morning dressing change, I went into town to meet Laura at St John's City Parish Church. The Eucharist was just ending there, and she was sitting at the front of the nave absorbing the celebration prayerfully. I met half a dozen of the church's regulars over lunch in the tea room afterwards, and learned that the Governing Body of the Church in Wales had held its opening Eucharist in church earlier in the morning. Apparently the two day meeting is taking place in City Hall, as it did for the first time a couple of years ago.

Since her last visit, Laura's father died, aged 82. He was an Orthodox priest and a holy man. The last two months of his life were spent in the hospital where she works. For her, this was a profound inspiring experience, bringing them closer together than ever before, and changing how she sees her medical vocation. Sadly, she'll only be able to visit Sheila, the other inspirational elder in her life to say farewell at Roath Court funeral home. Laura has given me a beeswax candle from back home to light and burn at the altar at Sheila's funeral service.