Bay uplift

After a wet day yesterday when the workmen weren't able to continue stripping the rendering, they returned this morning and continued their daunting noisy task. I was glad to go out and meet Rufus for coffee and chat at Cafe Castan. He's not being treated at all well by those overseeing  his ministry development. In the absence of a diocesan Bishop at the moment, there's no higher church authority he can reasonably appeal to. With no authentic spiritual leadership being exercised, it seems affairs are being managed in a seriously un-pastoral fashion. I don't like it at all. It's destroying that sense of community in faith and trust which Christians are meant to give witness to in life together.

I walked to the Bay wetland nature reserve, after lunch, and was astonished so see scores of swans swimming around in the neighbourhood of the great flyover which crosses the water, joining the A4232 with the central Bay area. There was a pair of ducks I didn't recognise too, and couldn't identify when I looked later at my birdie books. 

Outside the Millennium Centre, Roald Dahl Plas is once more occupied during August by a fun fair with a giant sand pit at the heart of it - all branded as 'Cardiff Bay Beach'. It's an ingenious idea to do something different with this huge open space, a hundred yards from the water's edge, and it looked pretty busy as I passed by. 

Renovation work on on Bute Road railway station buildings is now complete and it looks spruce and clean for the first time in half a century. It dates back to the 1860s when the South Wales Railway line was constructed under Brunel, and a short branch line extended to take passengers down to the cross channel steamers in the docks. It's been semi-derelict and unoccupied for decades, blighting the neighbouring area. It now has space for a restaurant and some offices. I hope they get fully occupied and soon, as this would really enhance this interesting historic locality.

On the way back I met Clare in John Lewis' for a cup of tea, escaping from the house after the workmen had gone for the day. After supper, I whiled away the evening by working my way through several episodes of 'Keeping Faith' series two. It's again filmed in the most beautiful coastal locations in the vicinity of the Gower and Pendine. There's a serious crime thread threaded into a domestic  family drama, beautifully acted, kids as well as adults. What with this and some powerful domestic narratives about sexual abuse and rural housing poverty in the Archers, there's some thoughtful stuff to capture the attention being broadcasted at the moment.

   

Happy Landings

This morning, Rachel landed at Heathrow after flying overnight from Phoenix. The plane was only half full, so she was able to stretch out on a row of central aisle seats and sleep much of the way. That's great news for getting through the time zone difference. She's travelling to Kenilworth to have a couple of days with big sister before they come here for the weekend.

Clare accompanied me to UHW for my appointment with Mrs Cornish the surgeon. She was twenty minutes late arriving, a very busy woman. But, it made me feel nervous that I'd been forgotten or displaced and not been told. The way I have been dealt with over the past nine months has left me with little confidence in the way things get done in this hospital. It's the way things are managed, and that has little to do with what the medics can and do deliver.  Mrs Cornish was aware I had been complaining, and understood why, without trying to make excuses. She is more aware of the problems that I will ever be. The important thing is - what happens next?

She thoroughly examined me and said that healing had continued satisfactorily, except for anomalies observed and mentioned, which she said would be dealt with in the next round of surgery at a date to be arranged in September. She needs to establish if there are any more tracks concealed in deep tissue, causing problems for wound closure. So, no early removal of the existing suture, as I'd hope, and maybe a spell with an additional one, before a fourth and hopefully final operation. There's no quick solution or easy exit, but if it's possible to know what's ahead as far as possible, some plans can be made. And that's better than being in limbo.

I went for a six and a half mile walk along the Taff in the afternoon. Slowly I'm improving my daily average, and I think it does me good, even if I'm dropping off before bed time.

Bereavement busyness

I walked to St Catherine's an hour before the funeral, just to have enough time to check all was in order. I man in a white van stopped me to ask directions to the church, saying that he was attending the service. He had missed his turning so I got in and guided him to church through the back streets.

Although the bereaved family were aware that I would be replacing Emma, and I'd talked with them to check arrangements, somehow, the message about about Emma's sickness hadn't been fielded by the Funeral Directors, so a car went to the Vicarage to collect her, and was re-directed to our house, but I'd already arrived and was doing what I'd intended.

There was a large congregation for the funeral of an 84 year old, and the church was two thirds full. All went as intended. We stood by the graveside in the sun at Thornhill cemetery waiting for the last few mourners to arrive. Unusually a requested pop ballad was played from a portable CD device. It wasn't all that loud, but generated a calming atmosphere as we waited.

On my return home I walked up to Llandaff Weir, to see if I could get any interesting pictures of the heron which hunts for fish at the end of the weir nearest the west bank footpath. I was quite pleased at some of the results, though still failed to catch it taking off, when it looks so spectacular. Practice makes perfect, I tell myself.

After supper, I drove out to Pentyrch to make a bereavement visit and prepare this Friday's funeral. The son of the deceased lives in a new house on the north side over the village with a beautiful view of the Garth, on the opposite side of the valley. He said he's bought the house 'off plan' not realising how good the outlook would be. Serendipidy! After a half hour's conversation, I returned home and worked on preparing the service for the rest of the evening.

Pop-up in the park

The absence of noise from the outside renovation work yesterday was most welcome, so we enjoyed a lie-in and a late breakfast. Then I wrote a fresh sermon for tomorrow, and following a siesta we walked to Llandaff in the sunshine for tea and cake.

On BBC Four, another re-run episode of Inspector Montalbano in the evening. I wonder how long it will be before the final novel in this wonderful series by Andrea Camillieri is published, or the movie made for TV?  He wrote it years ago, instructing his publisher that it shouldn't be issued until after his death. One way or another it will be the end of Montalbano. Will he be killed off? Will he finally marry Livia and retire? Will they become foster parents, given the loss of the child they wanted to adopt in an early series? Happy ever after or not? The author has left us a lovely legacy of pure speculation while we wait.

This morning, I celebrated and preached as planned at St Catherine's. I did my daily walk as half a dozen circuits of Thompson's Park in the late afternoon. Since it came into the local news six months ago, we've been waiting to see the old park keeper's hut and toilets converted into a cafe. It's not yet fully developed, but this weekend, a pop-up cafe run by Lufkin, Pontcanna's local gourmet coffee purveyors, opened for the first time. This was just closing when I arrived, but I stuck my head around the kitchen door and wished them well. Thompson's Park is already a convivial place, as many young parents bring their kids to visit the duck pond, so this is a welcome enhancement.

On the way back I bumped into Fr Rhys, who'd just taken Holy Communion to Emma at home. Thankfully, she returned from hospital earlier, but is going to be off-grid recovering for a couple of weeks. This evening, following through on several emails about tomorrow's funeral, I prepared my order of service, to accommodate what the family had already agreed with Emma. Glad I'm free and fit to cover some of her duties at least.

Unexpected upheaval

First thing yesterday morning a team of scaffolders was meant to arrive with all their equipment to build a three storey framework which gives them access up to the roof of the house. It's not an easy job, as everything must be brought into the back garden via the lane. By the time I left for church they still hadn't arrived. I celebrated the Eucharist at St John's with a congregation of nine, and by the time I got back they'd arrived and started. The job was done by mid-afternoon.

Today, the noise of the power hammer hacking off the wall surface starts in earnest. We get times of respite fortunately, as there's only so long anyone can work with a pneumatic tool and not injure themselves. It's impossible to get away from the noise anywhere in the house.

An email of this weekend's benefice newsletter told me that weekday services are cancelled during August. I don't know why. It's not the only time of year when the regular numbers drop low. I'll miss these routine activities. They are part of my week, and help keep me sane.

It looks as if this isn't going to be a routine August anyway. I had a call this morning from Emma's husband Nick to say she was in hospital. The baby she's expecting is OK but she's suffering from a chest complaint which the medics have yet to diagnose, poor girl. He asked if I would stand in for her at St St Luke's evening Mass for Joachim and Anna. Willingly I said, and he said he'd contact someone to arrange opening up. 

Later in the day Emma got in touch by Email to ask if I could take over a funeral for which she's done all the preparation on Monday. Having had no funerals for several weeks, three church funerals have landed on her desk for this week. I'll take on the Friday one as well, but the Tuesday one I dare not take the risk. It comes several hours after my rendezvous with Mrs Cornish the surgeon, but I have no idea of what the outcome of this will be, once she has examined me. I was only with her for half an hour back at the end of March prior to my second operation, but what'll happen this time is anybody's guess. I cannot risk either letting a bereaved family down, because I'm detained at UHW for further examination or treatment, nor can I risk not being immediately available in case immediate treatment is desirable.

In the afternoon I walked over to inspect the new Aldi store in Excelsior Business Park, and bought a couple of their interesting looking wines to try out, one a Valenciano organic red and the other a Carcassonne red. The label of the latter told me the designation 'Vin de Pays' has now been replaced  in France since last year by 'Indication Géographique Protégée, which is between Vin de Table and Apellation d'Origine Contrôlée. Things I didn't know I needed to know yesterday.

I got to St Luke's in good time, along with one other parishioner, but whoever was meant to come and unlock didn't turn up, so we shared a few prayers ad lib outside the locked gates and parted company. Holy Annie Jesus' granny, the parish is glad of your prayers in these unsettling times.

After supper I watched an episode of 'Perception' on 5USA. More drama featuring flawed if brilliant sleuthing. Not impressed. Then watched an episode of 'Silent Witness' I'd seen before, but didn't quite figure out how the plot hung together.. Needn't have bothered really, as I'd figured it out before the end. Even so UK crime science dramas are so much more interesting, as they don't dumb down for the audiences like the American ones. Timescales for processing and delivering forensic and medical data are always a bit magical, however.

Enough light in the tunnel

I celebrated the Eucharist with just four others at St Catherine's Most of the church regulars are away at the moment. A young mother with a ten month old baby joined us however, giving much pleasure to the rest of us, who are all old enough to be grandparents.

Just after I returned home I received a phone call from Jacquie, Patient Care Coordinator at UHW, apparently being pursued by the LHB Concerns team to find out what was happening about my case. It turned out this was the same person I spoke to a couple of weeks ago when I last had to call in the Concerns team. At that time, it wasn't at all clear who she was or what her role is in relation to the surgical scene, but she explained what was happening and it satisfied me all was proceeding in order.

She was upset with me for reaching out in several directions at the same time instead of contacting her. She didn't initially understand that I didn't know who she was or have her contact details. When things fell apart last Friday, and previous pattern of dis-junction in relationships between hospital and patients repeated itself, as several others have said to me; "It's time to make a big fuss. It's the only way to get listened to."

Anyway, after several minutes of heated cross talk, to break the ice, where I made my position clear about the hospital's communications dysfuction, Jacquie admitted there had been an error. I had been assigned an outpatient appointment with Mrs Cornish when she was on annual leave. When this was realised it was re-scheduled without regard for the measure of urgency which Mrs Cornish conveyed through Jacquie in setting this appointment. So I told Jacquie that this is exactly what has happened to me previously, and the reason for me getting militant about it.

Anyway, the outcome is an appointment to see Mrs Cornish on a ward in UHW, in exactly the same way as I saw her back at the end of March, before the second op. This was set for Monday morning next. Fine, OK, that's all I need for now. Booking a surgery date will follow from the examination, though I don't imagine it'll happen until after the holiday now. I'll find out.

Within a couple of hours, Jacquie was back on the phone to me apologetically, asking if I'd agree to being re-scheduled to Tuesday morning. It seems that Monday was 'window of opportunity' due to the cancellation of an operation as no anaesthetist had been booked, but in the time elapsed between calls an anaesthetist had been found and the operation was back on, so I was rescheduled again! Well I don't mind this change, just as long as I get seen, and get to know what the next step is.

I guess this scenario is indicative of the hospital's state of health, overburdened with a huge case load resources over-stretched, constantly juggling to achieve desired aims. No wonder there can be chaos, and it's terrible to be on the receiving end. Communications and the technologies employed by the NHS hospitals are notoriously poor in many quarters, outdated, insecure and difficult to implement universal change because some departments insist on absolute control of their assets and don't give priority to ensuring communications are working for everyone as intended.

By way of contrast our GP surgery has brought its patient communications system up to date, using emails texts, and even a smartphone app for booking appointments and arranging prescriptions. It works, although I don't make use of it, as it's easy to pop into the surgery when I'm passing and say hello. So often I see a couple of admin staff huddled around a screen, studying and cross-checking general arrangements and bookings. Their attention to detail in the face of high demand in a busy practice is impressive.

Well, for the moment the cloud of anxiety has lifted, my stress level is much reduced and blood pressure back to normal. I even had a spring in my step when I did my five mile afternoon walk, but perhaps that's the hot hot weather leaving my leg muscles more flexible than usual, so that it doesn't take so long to get into stride.

Hostage to medical mismanagement

I spent yesterday evening, and early Monday morning researching and writing a complaint to send to the Local Health Board's Concerns team. Telling the full story from December 2017 until Friday last, involved a lot of cross checking between my diary and this blog. In the end, I had a four page A4 document ready to email. The aim of writing this blog over the past nine years has been to tell my story of retirement ministry and getting old. Over the past year, health concerns have figured more than I could possibly have anticipated, given how blessed I have been with good health and reasonable fitness, even now. I could never have anticipated first hand experience of the breakdown of NHS service provision due to such administrative chaos. I'd love to be able to share this with a journalist and raise public debate about what justice means in the way resources are distributed.

By ten o'clock I emailed my complaint to the Local Health Board Concerns Team and immediately received an automated response. Attached to it was a complaints form and information leaflet. Only much later in the  day did I notice this, but didn't have the energy to deal with this. After lunch, I walked to the Cardiff West constituency offices of our two excellent local assembly members, Mark Drakeford the new First Minister, and Kevin Brennan. I delivered two print copies of the complaint for the attention of the First Minister and the Deputy Health Minister Julie Morgan, who represents Cardiff North. This was done on the recommendation of my friend Roy Thomas, who knows well their interest in health issues as a result of his advocacy work on organ transplant consent. I doubt if my concern is unique. I'm hoping it's well expressed and detailed enough to contribute in a small way to any enquiry into the systemic failure of UHW's administration. Something has to be done.

Conversations with sister in law Ann and my sister June, not to mention Clare all focused on trying to persuade me to seek private surgery in order to finish off the work in progress as soon as possible as it is taking a toll on me and should not be delayed any longer. I hate this prospect. It's feels like giving up on making public medicine as good as it should be, as well as an un-necessary outlay of money. I can sue NHS Wales for negligence and maybe cover the cost of treatment, but there's no guarantee I'd succeed, and every possibility that it would take a long time and be very stressful. Sure, I'd relish a fight to achieve something good, but with my years on earth running out, am reluctant to expend energy on this when there are so many other things I still hope to experience.

After mulling it over, I decided on a tentative first step. I found the contact details of Mrs Cornish the surgeon who's been treating me on the website of The Spire private health care. Before turning in for the night, I wrote to her to ask if she was aware of what was happening, telling her that I have lost confidence in the ability of the system to deliver the desired outcome, asking if she would be willing to take me on as a private patient under The Spire. I have no idea if this will work, or if I will get a response, but I feel I have to take seriously what three people very close to me are saying.

I woke early this morning with all these things going around in my head, feeling tense and unwell. Later, I had a beginnings of a nosebleed, checked by blood pressure and found that it was 180/82. When I took it last Thursday before the awful appointment news arrived it had been 132/70, as it has been now for several weeks. It's the cumulative impact of coping with finding myself trapped, a hostage to failing medical hegemony.

At lunchtime, I visited my GP surgery and asked the practice nurse to check my blood pressure and make a formal record of it, having told her what had gone on recently. Later, one of the GP team on duty listened to my story over the phone, and took notes, promising to write to Mrs Cornish and ask if she knew what was going on. I was pleased and relieved to get this much done in a short time, even if the response arrives lot later. Then, just before five, I had an email from a person at the LHB Concerns team in response to my complaint submitted. Not a robotic reply, but acknowledgement from a real person that an investigation is now under way.

Hopefully this will bring my blood pressure back down into the region where the doctors no longer frown at me.

Starting today, a team of builders are going to be chipping the old and cracked rendering off the back of the house, and applying a fresh coat. This is going to take more than a week, and initially promises to be very noisy. There are three other houses in our neighbourhood having the same thing done right now, while the weather is good, and we often hear the nauseating sound of power hammers vibrating along the walls of our terrace. It's surprising how far the sound travels. Well, sorry guys, but now it's our turn to be a nuisance for a while.
   

  

White smoke day

Kath and Rhiannon arrived late Friday night to spend a few days with us. Rhiannon has finished school, done well in her end of year exams and passed her grade 5 flute exam. Now it's time for a little relaxation. They're excited about going to Crete for holiday in two weeks time. Yesterday, it was time for them to go pre-holiday shopping. I joined them in town, when they'd finished, and walked home with them through Bute Park.

We had a very nice take away evening meal from Stefano's, as I wasn't sure I could cope with two hours sitting in a restaurant at the moment. There was a mix up over Rhiannon's pizza order, which was confused with someone else's, and far too spicy for her, so we ended up with two pizzas, plus a third which Clare had got me to buy for her, when out shopping earlier in the day.

This morning, I was scheduled to celebrate and preach at the 9.00am in St John's. It's the first time, this year that I've been fit and able enough to offer to do an early service. This meant early rising to be sure I was ready to leave the house in good time, and all went well. In fact, I had half of one of last night's pizzas cold for breakfast, an unusual variation on routine, and it went down well.

I was slightly surprised that both Emma and Rhys turned up, expecting to minister as well. I call this 'rota disorientation', after so many months for the two of them, on the treadmill of taking services in three churches with the need to cover occasional absences filled either by me or another outside retired cleric. Besides there was Good News to be shared - the appointment of a new Team Rector, at last.

Last night Emma's husband Nick was on 'recovery' duty with Pidgeons, called out to an unexpected tragic sudden death of a teenager. Because of the circumstances, this took up most of the night so he didn't get home until four, disturbing for the whole household. So, having touched base with us, Emma went home to minister to Nick, before going on to celebrate and preach at St Catherine's.

Rhys made the Special Announcement, and deaconed for me and I presided and preached. It's a long time since I last did a service with another priest at the altar, several years. Frances Wilson, our new Team Rector is currently Director of Ordinands in Litchfield Diocese. At the moment we know nothing more about her, or when she'll be licensed. I'm not sure this is the appointment hoped for, but is perhaps to be expected from Bishop June. Nobody home grown in the Church in Wales good enough for the job? Is gender blindness or gender balance desirable in a small team? Some may be tempted to say.  Do these things matter any more anyway? The ultimate discernment rests with the Bishop, and I'm sure she'll have given it lots of thought, and chosen the best person for the job, as she had understood it. In the end, as with all of us in public ministry, 'by their fruits they shall be known'. 

Friends Jacquie, Gareth and Isabel came to lunch together with Kath and Rhi and ourselves. We had the main course in the garden, then when it started to spot with rain we moved indoors for ice cream and chocolate strawberries. Afterwards I started nodding off during the post prandial conversation, and ended up going to bed, instead of a walk in the park. It's not so much physical tiredness or pain that's hitting me at the moment, but emotional exhaustion and disquiet at the prospect of another battle with the NHS to get some justice done in relation to my treatment. If, when I returned from Montreux walking wounded, my already diagnosed complaint been dealt with more promptly, it would not have developed into a chronic condition requiring such extensive care.

Another appointment shock

First this morning a clinic appointment for Annie, one of the nurses who has seen me numerous times over the past six months, to check the wound, as had been recommended by my GP earlier in the week. Whilst in good condition, nearly closed and infection free, her opinion was that the over granulation problem was related to the continuing presence of the Seton's suture, not that its purpose in draining the wound has been fulfilled. All the more reason for the surgeon to be asked to remove it soon and complete the job.

Then I went into town for a meeting with Ashley and the Director or our radio equipment supplier about concluding our business with him. This is indeed a complex affair and it's hard to see how it can be achieved within the time frame remaining to us before winding up. Nothing is simple in this fast changing world of advanced technology, where things can lose their value and utility very quickly indeed.

I returned home at lunchtime to find a letter from Llandough outpatients department informing me that the appointment recently re-scheuled from 19th September to 8th August has been re-scheduled again for 8th January 2020. I was told after asking the LHB Concerns team to trouble shoot my appointment problem only fifteen days ago, that I was to be seen by Mrs Cornish the surgeon on 8th August prior to booking a third operation. This came as such a shock that I was overwhelmed with distress and thought I would collapse. If my blood pressure was still as high as it was last autumn, I could have had a stroke or a heart attack following inexplicable news like this.  

The increased pain from the wound this past week has been bad enough, and now this. No personal communication and no explanation, exactly the same as occurred last December when my first scheduled operation was cancelled, and this performance repeated in March before the second operation. Three times running is inexcusable. 

I straightaway called the Cardiff and Vale Local Health Board Concerns team hotline, explained what had happened, and stated that this time I am launching a formal complaint procedure against the hospital administration, on account of the extreme anxiety and distress such incompetent case handling is repeatedly causing.

Just after I made the call, in which I received a promise that it would be dealt with after the weekend,  Roy Thomas called, to re-organise our catch up tea time session this afternoon. We haven's actually seen each other since he was appointed a bio-ethics Professor of Swansea University a couple of years ago.

When I told him what had just happened, he laughed and said he was currently with the family of a kidney patient whose case was being mismanaged in exactly the same way as mine. He spends significant amounts of time wrangling with the health authorities over obtaining examinations and treatment for patients who are chronically ill. It's easier in third world South Africa to get to see a specialist than it is here he said. 

Health service administration in Wales is running in a state of competitive chaos. Having to campaign to obtain the medical services the NHS is there to provide for all citizens is an indication of a sickness endemic in the system itself. It can be brilliant in managing crisis care, and innovative treatments for cancer or heart surgery, but ends up neglectful, de-priotitising minor routine systematic surgical treatments, extending the suffering of many more patients with non prestigious ailments. No account is made of the waste of resources on extended nursing care and support for those waiting for or recovering from treatment, due to endless delays due to mis-management.

Anyway, it was good to see Roy again at home, late in the afternoon. He's been out of the country a lot in recent years, and now that his time as CEO of Kidney Wales is ended, he's looking to a future in which his pastoral and advocacy skills on behalf of seriously ill people can be put to use in a new context. It's marvellous to know that a high standing medico legal professional has his heart set on caring for those in such dire need.

Outsourcing, why not?

I celebrated the Eucharist at St John's this morning with eight others. Curiously the CofE calendar today celebrates the memory of Deaconess Elizabeth Ferard, founder of the Deaconess Community of St Andrew, which pioneered Anglican women's public ministry in the 19th century. The Church in Wales on the other hand celebrates St Elizabeth of Russia, a German noblewoman who became an Orthodox nun,  serving the poor and was martyred by the Bolsheviks in 1918. Very different women both called Elizabeth. I wonder if our own Queen, with her own very strong sense of public ministry and duty, grew up learning about either or both of them?

One of the St John's regulars had hip replacement surgery yesterday, after an eighteen month wait. She's an NHS patient but the job was outsourced to a private hospital in the Vale, so great is the demand I guess. When, I wonder, will the same facility be made available to shorten the queue of people with taxing ailments needing minor surgery? My condition went from acute to chronic during the long wait for treatment last autumn. I believe delays in the inevitably long course of treatment since then are hindering healing. 

I thought I had a clinic appointment booked for today, but there was nothing in my diary, so I went to the clinic after lunch to enquire, but the place was closed, the staff being out in the field, I guess. So, I went over to St David's hospital where our local Community Nursing teams are managed from and asked the nurse manager there to check if I'd missed one today or had one to come I'd forgotten to add into my diary. There was nothing entered, so I booked one tomorrow morning there and then. 

Frankly, I'm not as organised or focused as I need to be this week, perhaps because the changing wound condition is having a destabilising impact on routine. Last weekend's setback has repeated itself after a few quiet 'normal' days. The wound closes, then breaks open again unexpectedly. I have written this afternoon to Mrs Cornish the surgeon again to express my concern about this. I suspect increasingly that the over-granulation will have to be dealt with surgically, as chemical remedies are not working.

Catching the moon

Last night, at the end of the ten o'clock news, the announcer encouraged viewers to go out side and catch a glimpse of the partial eclipse of the moon, which was just reaching maximum obscurity. We had to climb up to the loft bedroom to get a good view, as the moon rises and proceeds westwards almost along the line of the rooftop for several hours before ascending higher into the sky, at this time of year. I didn't have time to prepare well, so my pictures were no better than previously. I've a lot to learn about getting the best camera settings possible for low light and astronomical pictures, having relied on pre-sets and auto features for far too long. We suffer from haze and light pollution here in the city. Editing and processing don't improve things much, unfortunately.

This morning, I celebrated the Eucharist with half a dozen at St Catherine's, and did some shopping before returning for lunch. Late afternoon, a good six mile walk through the fields up to Llandaff and back along the Taff. I got a few curious bird photos, curious in the sense that I'm not sure if they are unusual gull species or immature birds. I've had a couple of glimpses of an egret, or maybe it was a little heron flying down the river, but not within range of a decent photo.

There's nothing much of interest on telly at the moment, which is just as well, since the long daily walks leave me wanting to go to bed early, struggling to stay awake saying evening prayer.

Closing the books

While out shopping this morning, I went to Riverside Clinic for some supplies, and had a brief chat about the trouble I've been experiencing over the past few days with one of the nurses who knows me well. Thankfully, I've been in somewhat better form today, and needed to be, as I had an appointment with a HSBC bank business adviser in town after lunch.

This was to sort out the problem caused by the bank's unilateral closure of Cardiff Crime Limited account before CBS could produce the 2018 Annual Financial Statement to submit to Companies' House. This is the final reckoning for the not-for-profit body set up to manage funds for the work of Cardiff Business Crime Reduction Partnership which ceased to function after the resignation of the Business Crime Manager it employed at the end of 2017. It will be a relief to me as the sole account signatory to obtain formal closure of this ill-fated undertaking. Everything is accounted for. No money is owed to anyone or owing to this account. It was set up as a not-for-profit undertaking, and has fulfilled its purpose, albeit causing a lot of grief, due to administrative errors on the part of the bank from the outset. Never again, I say to myself. Never again!

I finished the second Pablo Poveda novel 'El Aprendiz', which morphs from political thriller into an odd kind of sci-fi extrapolation of a world in which lies spun by the powers that be through virtual reality and fake news have entirely taken over and control society. The romantic intellectual hero of the first novel becomes the figurehead of a militant resistance movement at war against Big Brother state. He's not a particularly appealing character, and the characterisation of people portrayed isn't well developed. The story seems to be what matters. It's complex and full of surprises. I could see it being made into a TV movie series. The books have used a wide range of Spanish vocabulary which I have had to look up to get the full flavour of the narrative, but It's been pleasing to find how much I have been able to grasp the narrative thread, at my present intermediate language level.

Now I must hunt for the third part of the trilogy. First, a visit to Waterstone's, and if unsuccessful, I'll have to buy on-line. I'm reluctant to do this unless I have to. Bookshops are important cultural places, and like libraries, we're losing them at a lamentable rate.

Paying the price

After Saturday's outing to Leamington, I felt unusually tired and was relieved that I could attend the Parish Eucharist and not have to officiate or preach. Clare went off to her study group in Bristol after Sunday lunch. I spent the afternoon stretched out in bed, reading more of the Pablo Poveda novel, then walking up to Llandaff Cathedral, returning along the Taff Trail. I've pushed my average daily walking distance to over six miles now. It's pretty tiring, but it guarantees that I sleep well, even if I'm still having to get up and change an uncomfortable dressing during the night. 

Monday was much the same, with the wound giving me more trouble than I'd expected. So I asked my GP for a brief telephone chat, to discuss how to manage a situation in which I'm having more pain and discomfort than I have done for several weeks. It's not debilitatingly bad, but it seems that as the outer layers of tissue heal, and nerve endings re-grow and connect, skin can become ultra-sensitive to whatever the wound exudes. 

It seems the secret is to clean the wound to use a fresh absorbent dressing more often that I have been used to this past few months and this helps the incision dry out. The wound isn't closing as it should, because it over-produces tissue in response to being kept open with a suture for an unusually long time, as part of the fistula treatment process - hypergranulation it's called. This can reduce naturally once the wound finally dries out. I'm nearly there, but not quite. 

I'm not sure what good it's doing to wait so long between operations. I'm pretty sure that internal healing has been progressing over the past six weeks, and that it would have been beneficial to be suture free to permit the natural healing to work. But, there's an NHS queue, and the surgeon's work is not well supported by admin that can maintain effective relevant communication between doctor and patient.

The physical stress of Saturday's train journey has certainly had an impact on the condition of the wound. It's been something of a set-back. Today has also been miserable, and it was an effort to get out and walk, albeit worthwhile. Funny how I can keep walking a good distance every day and generally experience steady improvement, but if I have to sit for too long in a less than ideal position, it always seems to make matters worse. I'll need to go carefully for the next few days.

Train outing for a kids' show

After breakfast we walked to Cardiff Central Statio to take a train to Birmingham New Street, then a connecting train to Leamington Spa, a journey of almost three hours, to watch a performance of Kath, Lucy and Anto's Wriggledance Theatre company, as part of a children's arts festival set in the lovely parkland of the town's Jephson's Gardens. Their current touring show 'Out of this World' is a 45 minute fantasy trip into space for under fives. Thus far, it's been done successfully in libraries or community arts venues. 

Tomorrow, the three final shows will take place in the foyer of Birmingham Repertory Theatre. Today's was a unique challenge, taking place in a large marquee in daylight, where none of the usual lighting effects would work, and noises off from other events in the vicinity could have been a distraction. In any case, it went very well indeed with about thirty children and a dozen or so adults taking part. I'm so glad we got to see it at last, having learned about the show's development at each stage since its conception as, as a celebration of the 50th anniversary of the first man to set foot on the moon.

It was well worth the travelling, although I found this a bit stressful, as the train seats were narrow and uncomfortable, largely due to wear and tear. It proved very difficult to settle and the effort was a drain on my physical energy. British trains are no match for their European counterparts. As we travelled out of Cardiff to Severn Tunnel Junction, it was interesting to see the extent of progress made on installing the equipment for electrifying the line from Paddington to Cardiff. 

It was gone half past eight when we arrived back in Cardiff. Rather than wait for a bus, we walked home via the 'Rock & Malt' the local chip shop, where we bought what we thought was a small bag of chips for supper, which turned out to be big enough for three of us! It was just the right remedy for tiredness after six hours of train travel.

I often complain about the terrible litter problem we have in our streets, Council workers can never keep up with the task of clearing the mess, except in the city centre, for appearances sake. Little is done to expand the number of strategically placed litter bins either, but extra bins would require more workers to empty, and public spending cut-backs rule this out. I noticed that on Birmingham New Street station, there were no litter bins to be seen anywhere. Plenty of shops selling take away food, however. 

The station is kept clean by a patrolling squad of workers, so passengers discard the cup or sandwich box they have just finished with anywhere they fancy, including perching them on seats which other might want to use. They stay there until collected by the patrolling cleaners, but how long is that in practice? At peak travel times, or shift changeover times? Far more seriously it takes away from travellers a sense of obligation to clear up after themselves. It promotes a culture of dependency on 'the travel system' created by smart modern management. I don't imagine that urban architects conceived of their shiny new icons of progress, with rubbish strewn around their elegant spaces as an adornment. The gulf between the ideal and the reality is immense. No wonder urban society is in such a mess.

Making the most of the sun

Clare drove me out to Llandough hospital for my pre-op assessment check mid-morning. Same routine as before, except that I am fitter and feel better for being able to exercise more. I see the surgeon in another four weeks from now, and some time after that will get a date for the third round of surgery.

I returned home on the bus, and then did some necessary weekend shopping. Making the most of the weather, Clare took our large double duvet to the dry cleaners on her way to the gym. I collected it at the end of the afternoon and hung it out in the sunshine for a couple of hours to give it an extra airing, and make it smell extra fresh, naturally.

I went for a walk after supper, spent an hour editing my Caldey photos, then went to bed early to read some more of the Pablo Poveda novel I have been neglecting lately as I've not found time to settle and read. I've not watched much telly lately either. When the sun shines,  and it's not fiercely hot, being outdoors is what matters most. As a result, I look as sun-tanned as when I  spend time in Spain, and the same happens in deep mid-winter.

When I did teaching practice in the mid eighties, some kids in an all white class asked if I was a Pakistani, because my Welsh accent was unfamiliar to them, and I was dark skinned compared to them. Was it a wind up, or sheer adolescent ignorance of anyone outside their cohort? I'll never know.

Useful spares

Ann left for Felixstowe after breakfast and Clare went off to school for her weekly kindergarten eurythmy session. As I was leaving for church, Mary came across and said that BT was refusing to let her access her email, posting a warning message about using an 'insecure browser'. I couldn't do anything about it at that moment and promised to return and sort it out after lunch. She's still using Kath's elderly Acer Aspire, which reached the end of its useful life with Windows over five years ago. I got it running nicely with Linux Mint, and gave the machine to Mary, and it's given her little trouble ever since. Interesting ... what's happened?

Following our trip to Caldey on Tuesday, I was glad of the opportunity to go and celebrate the memory of St Benedict at the St John's midweek Eucharist. It's amazing to think that St Samson, the first Abbot of Caldey's Celtic religious community was a contemporary of Benedict. So too was St Illtud, Samson's spiritual father and teacher in the monastic settlement at Llantwit Major. The movement of the Spirit that inspired the 'flight into the desert' of God seeking individuals dropping out of society, uncomfortable with the rise of Christianity as an established religion under the Emperor Constantine, began a century earlier with St Anthony of Egypt, St Basil the Great and the Cappadocian Fathers. 

Latin and Celtic monasticism also evolved at this time and communities organised themselves, in their own distinctive way and flourished wherever they were able to plant themselves, whatever the challenges and difficulties this entailed. Were they each aware of the other's existence, I wonder? The 5th-6th century monastic pioneers probably knew of their fourth century predecessors and their teaching, but not necessarily about their contemporaries. Where monks settled, lived, worked and prayed, they attracted neighbours, and benefited from each others skills, experience and labour, and as a result social and economic development occurred. 

There wasn't a grand social networking plan or a mission strategy as such. Everything evolved around a life of worship that was accompanied by hard work of one kind or another. Thus the Benedictine way of life spread across Europe, to ever more remote regions, bringing know-how, technologies, education, and transformation of the very landscape itself. European civilisation, and even British religious culture owes much to the movement Benedict's rule inspired. He's a suitable patron saint for the continent as a whole. 

After the service I visited the wound clinic to collect a supply of dressings and returned home to cook lunch, then went and inspected the problematic laptop. I quickly found it couldn't complete its update cycle - 'Repositories not found ...' was the error message. Well, surprise surprise! The Linux version installed has run for five years, and hadn't updated some of its components: i.e. to the new Firefox browser version. The older the version, and eventually some secure sites will refuse to make use of it because it's been labelled 'insecure'. If the repository links weren't functional then the best answer would be a re-installation of a recent Linux Mint version, destined to be update supported for another five years. So that's what I did. Well, did twice actually, as I removed the installation medium to soon at reboot and borked the process. Still, by the time I left, the machine was running normally again, probably better in fact than recently. Eventually the hard drive will go. I have a few spares I can used. If anything else dies, the machine goes for scrap. I have several spare machines, as people given them to me, when they upgrade. You never know when they'll come in useful.

  

Home again to a party

After our fifth and final cooked English breakfast start to the day, we set out for the train station with enough time to spare for a ten minute stop in the small park on the south facing headland. It looks over the Tenby course and the woodland behind South Beach. Battery Road, along the ridge still has some of its ancient cannons punctuating the route, This was the natural first line of defence against invaders from land or sea, once upon a time.

The single coach train took us to Carmarthen and then on along the coast to Swansea, where the new Olive Green liveried GWR train to London Paddington starts its journey. Next year these Japanese made hybrid trains will run from Cardiff to London powered electrically. From Cardiff to Swansea, the trains will switch to diesel-electric traction, thanks to a miserable short sighted penny pinching government decision. 

Ironically, a short section of electrified track will have to be installed just a few hundred metres outside Swansea station, to the site of the maintenance engineering depot built of HItachi to serve the new fleet of trains, probably before the Cardiff-Swansea electrification plan was scrapped. Along with the government's refusal to proceed with development of either a Severn Barrage or a Swansea tidal lagoon, both capable of generating huge amounts of 'green' energy, it's clear that a London English centred government has no interest in enabling Wales to stand on its own feet economically. It's a miserable state of affairs to say the least.

We got home just before three, which gave me time to unpack and tidy myself up before walking to Llys Esgob for the Bishop of Llandaff's garden party for retired clerics. I got the impression, from the mounain of cakes and sandwiches left over that it was less well attended than last year. It was so good to see Fr Graham and Eleri there, and Fr Hywel, amongst others. The Bishop said that Canton should hear about a new Team Rector in a week or so, as they are now taking up references. By the time the new incumbent is licensed, Emma will be starting maternity leave, so the Parish will still have an extended period with just one full time priest. The Bishop didn't seem as concerned about the impact of this on the Benefice as I am. Well, as long as I can't go abroad, I'm happy to continue plugging gaps. I still have no idea when the surgeon will discharge me as fit to travel.

When I got back home, Clare and Ann were out, so I started cooking what turned into a paella, with the portions of hake that were thawing a bit too slowly. I got a telling off for that from Clare, but the paella turned out just find, even if it wasn't on the menu du soir. 

Ah, back to a normal comfortable bed tonight. What a relief!

Word treasure

Fortunately, another day of lovely beach weather, and an opportunity for Ann and Clare to swim in the sea. That's something I am unwilling to risk doing until I am fully healed, but there's always plenty of interest to take photos of. We've noticed jellyfish washed up on every shore around here, and on Caldey as well. Their lifeless forms catch the sunlight, and bear a casual resemblance to a half inflated plastic bag. Tenby beaches are remarkably litter free. Beach visitors use the litter bins provided, but annoyingly, junk food foraging seagulls pull out the contents and scatter them around. I feel sorry for the waste disposal men who have to clear up the mess before taking rubbish away. It was the same in town after the Long Course events of the weekend. Their care for and pride in the environment they maintain is highly commendable.

In Caldey's bookshop yesterday, I found an interesting volume to bring home with me - a version of the Psalter rendered in 17 syllable Haiku verse form, by Richard Gwyn, a Priest-Monk of the Cistercian community. Hebrew poetic form makes use of rhythm, repetition and alliteration. It can be quite an elaborate way to make a simple point. Haiku by contrast is concentrated and punchy, suitable for meditating with. It's an impressive piece of work, so I bought a copy for me and one for Ann. 

In the afternoon, the Clare and Ann went shopping. I had a siesta before going for another walk along North Cliff. I've not been able to sleep as well as I'm used to, due to a bed that's too small for two people who need lots of sleeping space. Plus, the mattress surface was too soft for me, causing my wound to open up when I rolled over or got out of bed. I find that having quite a firm supportive surface is essential to avoid this kind of misery. Still, it continues to improve incrementally, as long as I can avoid setbacks of this nature.

We had a last picnic supper in our room rather than go out for a meal. And then, packing!

Caldey revisited

We were blessed with a bright sunny day to take one of the open ferry boats shuttling day visitors to and from Caldey Island every twenty minutes. It's very much a fair weather crossing, and the very fact has blighted the economy of the island for centuries. It's fertile and can produce high quality dairy products, but generating an income from this depends on consistency in getting milk to mainland market. For this reason, it's had to rely on tourism more than agriculture to provide an income for the colony of 8-12 Cistercian monks who live and worship there. Not every monk has the gifts and abilities to work as a productive farmer. Times have changed, even in the seeming timelessness of a eight hundred year old religious order.

It's over forty two years since we last came to Caldey from St Paul's in Bristol with Kath and Rachel, plus Jan Jill Katie and Karina for a few days of respite from inner city ministry. There are a few metalled strips of road now and a more substantial landing stage. The woodland looks well managed and the conifers around the village are now mighty mature trees. The village green boasts a teashop, selling drinks and sandwiches, but all eating happens al fresco as there's no shelter apart from the trees. It stands to reason. If the weather is poor, no visitors. If the weather is fine, shelter isn't needed.

We arrived in time to hear the bell being rung for Sext, and went up to the Abbey church to attend the office. It's the same simple liturgy in the same simple house of monastic prayer as it was four decades ago. Time stood still for us, momentarily.

We then went and visited the island's church of St David, adjacent to the Abbey, where generations of islanders and monks are buried in neighbouring plots of ground. The stories of some of them and the history of the cemetery, as formalised by the early 20th century Benedictine settlers, is recounted on a panel in the church porch. It's a lovely simple building. I don't know how often Mass is said there for non monastic residents, but it's a quiet place of welcome for all who pass by.

The same can also be said for St Illtud's Priory church, which is part of a complex of farm buildings a quarter of a mile away from the village green. The farm now houses the Caldey chocolate factory. Among the outbuildings that used to house cattle is the derelict remnant of a small Priory house dating back to the middle ages, and attached to it, a chapel which may be 12-13 century, with hints of a 6th century sanctuary preceding it. Unusually the chapel has a cobblestone floor, monastic choir stalls and quite a long chancel. St Samson was the first prior of Caldey, a pupil of St Illtud at Llantwit Major. So this chapel is dedicated in honour of Samson's spiritual father.

While I was there a family group of eight Spanish people arrived, lit candles and left prayer messages. Later I noticed them lying in the shade together on the village green taking a siesta, happily at home in this little corner of the paradisium claustralis.

On our way back to the boat we went and took a perk at St Philomena's guest house, which I didn't remember though we stayed there. I did remember the small watchtower oratory chapel on the hill behind it, however, dedicated to Our Lady Queen of Peace. I think this was where I was permitted to say Mass during our stay. But funnily, it's not as vivid a memory as staying in a place so close to nature that lives and breathes the worship of God, each day, always.

We dined out in the evening, but not where we expected. We set out sights on an Italian restaurant overlooking the harbour, but it was fully booked. We made our way back into the main street to look for an alternative, climbing steps through a narrow alley flanked by ancient houses. One of them was a mediaeval merchant's dwelling, owned by the National Trust, and next door to it a restaurant cum pub called The Plantaginet, equally old, with dining rooms on three floors. As we wanted to eat early they were able to fit us in. And they did us proud! I had grilled Tuna, Clare and Ann had Hake.
A memorable meal at the end of a nostalgic day.
 

It was lovely to return and see changes for the better but also the unchanging nature of the island's very reason for being a holy place.

Sweet song amidst the clamour

We joined the congregation at St Mary's Parish Church in Tenby town centre this morning. The main street outside was cordoned off for the day's running events and crowded with people, spectators and runners for different events. The PA music and continuous commentary stream was obtrusively loud, even in the depths of the beautiful 12 century church filled with morning sunlight. It has many large windows, and thus is susceptible to intrusive street noise. Hardly an issue most Sundays, but today, a ruination of the sacred peace of the Lord's day.

Fr Andrew the Vicar was understandably tensed up by the competitive noise from beyond, doing a sound check before starting wondering if he was going to be heard. The marathon was timed to start as the Eucharist began. His appeals to the Council events management had been ignored over several years. The might of numbers who make sport their religion and are indifferent to ancient tradition, is all that matters these days.

The service began against this backdrop with the gentle sound of the 30 strong robed church choir singing an introit anthem in a choir vestry which opens out into a long chancel. This must be a regular occurrence as it brought a slightly distracted talkative congregation to stillness and quiet attention. And then, the first hymn was sung in procession. A nice touch.

  

I think there were about a hundred of us present. Almost nobody under fifty. The Vicar blessed those running at the end of the service. I thought this was generous. I don't suppose anyone would relay this gesture back to the overamplified commentariat outside on the street, but it was a good example of blessing rather than cursing those who take no thought for the Lord's service on the Lord's Day.

After a snack lunch I walked out along North Beach and on along  the Coast Path to find the secluded Waterwynch Cove, on a spur that descends from the main path to the sea in a narrow valley containing several substantial private properties. The Coast path itself is well marked and surfaced, but has some stiff long gradients. I was pretty tired by the time I got back even though I'd only walked just over five miles. I'm used to walking in the coastal plain of Cardiff these days and not quite as fit as I think I am.

Hike mishap

We made an effort to avoid the town centre and its lurid coloured lycra clad cycling masses during today's time of competitions, and walked instead the the mile and a half length of South Beach in the direction of Lydstep, and up on to the ridge at the end of the bay, to take a look at the jagged chain of rocky islets which link the land outcrop with Caldey - called 'Ynys Byr' in Welsh - Long Island, from its shape. I caught sight of some gannets fleeing a marauding dog at the water's edge, plus a few oystercatchers feeding in the silt. From the headland it was possible to glimpse a family group of them, perched on a rocky ledge half way down a 90 foot cliff face. I got a few good photos of them among the many I took on that expedition. There'll be lots to process when I get home. Right now, there's lot's to pack in, and not even much time to write, let alone upload pictures.

At the far end of the beach, Ann twisted her ankle badly. She managed the return walk, but we needed to obtain a suitable support bandage, and with the streets being so crowded, after the races, finding and reaching a chemist's shop wasn't easy. We got to Boots' just before closing time, but were refused entry despite the need stated. She was advised to go to the local medical centre by taxi, which she did, only the find it was closed. There was a cleaner on duty there, who explained furiously that she was often there working at this time on the weekend when people came looking for help, sometimes in a emergency (it's an hours drive to the nearest A&E at Withybush). Somehow the change of hours in disregard for the need, was not common public knowledge, and people kept on being misdirected there when it was closed. By the time this happened, the race-day St John's Ambulance volunteers and duty paramedics had already packed up for the day and left. 

Eating out in such a crowded busy town with long queues everywhere didn't seem like a good idea, so we picnicked in our room instead. That way it was easier to organise a convenient footstool for Ann too, and finish the day convivially.

Tenby festive weekend

It took a little effort to get all three of us ready and out of the house just after ten this morning for a taxi to the station. We took the first of two trains to Swansea leaving ten minutes apart but arriving within minutes of each other, as one stops more than the other. Then we took the midday train to Tenby, via Carmarthen, arriving about half past one. It's a beautiful rural journey, with the exception of Port Talbot's industrial zone, with line running across the Vale of Glamorgan, along the Llwchwr Estuary, some of the Carmarthenshire coast and the river Towy.

It was a half mile walk from the station to Lindholm Guest House in an early Victorian terraced street atop South Cliff overlooking a vast golden sandy bay with Caldey Island on the horizon. A local man called Peter was at the station welcoming and seeing off visitors. He told us that taxis had to be rung for or booked in advance, as they didn't make a habit of waiting around and meeting the handful of train arrivals each day. As it happened, he works in an hotel near ours and accompanied on the climb up from the station, telling us about Tenby's history and must see delights all the way.

Once settled in we walked around a crowded town centre, busy with athletic looking visitors from all over the region, here to take part in a weekend Triathlon even, called 'The Long Course'. Tonight a 2.4 mile swim in the sea with two 2,500 people taking part, walking around the streets in wet-suits before and after. The North Beach was packed with participants and supporters, animated by loud disco music and commentator, whose muffled voice half a mile away echoed and bounced around the bay, unintelligibly. Shorter swim events were held for youngsters and adults in addition to the major swim race, which started when the evening tide had come in far enough. 

We had a bar snack supper in Tenby's Yacht Clubhouse, open to non-members. We all had risotto. Cod for me and lobster, the local speciality for Clare and Ann. We then wandered the streets, finding our way around one of Britain's ancient walled towns, with some houses dating back to mediaeval times, a 12 century Parish Church, and some fine 18th-19th century terraces overlooking the sea. The high street was in the throes of being organised into enclosures to accommodate tomorrow's day of cycling events and Sunday's marathon and other running events. It's probably going to be one of the town's busiest festive weekends of the year. Much overtime will be worked by Council employees and volunteers to keep consumer chaos at bay with the consumption of tens of thousands of fast food meals and hundreds of thousands of drinks. It's such a pity that modern people don't seem to know how enjoy themselves without leaving behind them a horrible mess for others to clear up.

Confusion decoded

I celebrated the Eucharist at St John's with nine others this morning. Emma joined us and sat in the congregation. Afterwards she told me that she's expecting her second baby, end of November. That'll  give the Parish as much joy and delight as her family, no doubt!. She also said that I can preach, on the third Sunday in September when I'll be celebrating the 50th anniversary of being made a Deacon and starting in public ministry. Apparently the church wardens want a hand in making this, as Emma says "An occasion with cake and bubbles". I already have in mind a sermon to preach, quoting the words of the Bishop to the ordinand when handing over a copy of the New Testament following the Laying on of Hands: "Take thou authority to preach the Word of God if thou be thereto licensed by the Bishop". It's the first gift which the Church offers to those whose call to public ministry is recognised in the rite of ordination. 

Any baptized person may preach, if they realise they have a story to tell or personal testimony to give, or an insight to share. Some should, when the occasion is right. Some have the gift to preach, as Paul says "In season and out of season", when their insight into scripture has something relevant for others, for the occasion. In traditional mainstream churches, nobody appoints themselves as a preacher, rather the community discerns and invites people to take on a role, which they may not be keen to accept to start with. Even if a person relishes the possibility of being a preacher their sense of calling and conviction must be tested by others. There are self appointed preachers too, who believe the Holy Spirit has called them without consulting others. This is not without problems, to my mind. 

The community needs to have a say in who will offer service, for the good of all. I'm grateful to have been nurtured in and followed the path of catholic church tradition. For me preaching, has remained an adventure of exploration and discovery of God's Word for two thirds of my mortal existence. Being made a Deacon was a unique milestone on this path, and one which I'm glad to celebrate now as a Parishioner in Canton. I may be retired from holding public office in a Parish, but am entrusted with a 'Permission to Officiate' which enables me to take services, and most importantly, to preach as a recognised minister of the church. 

After church I popped in to Stavros for a summer haircut. While waiting, I had a call on my mobile from an un-named official, either at UHW or from the LHB's 'Concerns' team in response to the email of complaint I'd sent on Monday this week. It seems that the 12th July outpatient appointment with a senior nurse is nothing more than a repeat of the pre-op medical assessment procedure, as the last one, done in January, has just expired. There should have been a briefing paper with the letter, which would have explained all, but there wasn't. My 8th August appointment to follow is with Mrs Cornish the surgeon, for the pre-op examination around which the next surgical intervention is planned. Phew! At last! Not knowing has lost me a lot of sleep this past fortnight, but all's well that ends well.

Ann arrived from Felixstowe at tea-time. She's coming with us to Tenby for a long weekend break. At last we're having some genuine summer weather, so we're looking forward to all the pleasures of a very special Welsh seaside resort - even if it is a lot more English in character and style than Welsh. The last time we were there was in 2003, I think, when I was asked to baptize the child of a couple I'd met and blessed the marriage of when I was working in Monaco. That was in Penally church, though we stayed in Tenby overnight, and delighted in most excellent local marine cuisine at the party after the service.

It's Kath and Anto's 27th wedding anniversary today, and they're off to Sta Pola for the weekend to celebrate in a favourite place. How did those years slip by so quickly?
  

Summer colour

This morning I celebrated the Eucharist at St Catherine's with five of the regulars. As Clive was away this week, I acquired his keys and played caretaker for once. It meant I had to stay a lot longer than I normally would, but with no pressing engagements later it didn't matter. 

I  took some lovely photos of flowers in Clare's garden after lunch. Over time she's added a great variety of flowering plants which come into blossom through spring and into autumn. Some come and go while others last long, but the colour composition changes often, as is very camera friendly. Take a peek here 

My afternoon walk took me to the big Tesco on Western Avenue in search of a new USB card reader, as the one I've had for many years is now faulty through wear and tear. I found what I needed for just a fiver, probably a quarter of what I paid for the equivalent item over a decade ago. I guess, in that time the market for such small add-on devices has grown hugely and manufacturing costs go down. On the return walk, I got some more heron photos. It was a bird with different markings this time, so more mature I think. I was pleased to find, on my return, that my days's walk had been over six miles, with no ill effects.

Nothing so far from the hospital about my appointments complaint.

  

Adaptor dearth

I did the big weekly grocery shopping outing this morning and cooked lunch while Clare was out at her study group. I've been looking for adaptors for USB-C to USB2 devices lately, without success until I called into Touro Tech computers in Wyndham Street. Here they sell tine dongles which offer a USB B female socket into which a variety of cables and devices can be plugged. I need this as the new Asus Chromebook only has USB-C ports and a micro SD card port. Very trendy 'state of the art' stuff but to hell with legacy compatibility. But, where there's a will there's a way.   

I spent the afternoon, preparing a suitable handover document for HSBC in relation to Amanda's Injury Trust fund, which was set up in 2010 with Owain and I as Trustees. It's time to hand this responsibility over to her son James as he's now come of age. One less thing to worry about. Before Christmas, when I was quite ill and wondering what my chances of survival were, this was the kind of concern which lurked at the back of my mind. How difficult would it be for her if were to die unexpectedly? Running out of years forces you to think about responsibilities to others of this kind. So glad I no longer have responsibility for running parish affairs, and am still free and well enough to do pastoral work. It's all I was ever keen to do actually.

For the second day in a row I walked over five miles, grateful that two idle days over the weekend hadn't set me back in terms endurance. I didn't go out until Clare left for choir practice and I was over two hours walking, with stops to take photos, as ever. The long shadows of evening across the Fields in the hours before a golden sunset were inspiringly beautiful.

  

On the warpath again

I woke up very early, half past four, fretting about not hearing anything more from the surgeon's secretary about what's supposed to be happening, despite my repeated requests for information to help make sense of two forthcoming appointments, and being given the impression that something needed to be arranged 'urgently', eleven days ago. So I decided it was time to launch a complaint procedure, and spent a couple of daybreak hours itemising the past few weeks of communications, which it was impossible to make sense of. By breakfast time, an email had been prepared and sent, with an auto-reply received. How long will this take I wonder?

This is Owain's actual birthday, and he arranged to go out with his long standing friend Anna on a day trip to Burry Port, a favourite spot of his on the Costa Carmarthen. Later we saw his photos on Instagram.

I had to return to bed to catch up on sleep after my early start, and wasn't fit to do much until the evening, when I managed a good long walk, and some photos of a juvenile grey heron exploring the best spots for fishing, down below the bridge at Blackweir. The older birds know the terrain. They just turn up and stand still for hours contemplating the water, hardly ever moving. In comparison the younger is almost fidgeting down at the water's edge. Fascinating.