Op prep

A miserable wet day today, with either light or heavy rain from early morning to late afternoon. Clare drove me to UHW Heath Hospital late morning for my pre-op assessment. The unit has moved from a collection of temporary buildings out in the grounds into the south wing of the first floor of the main hospital, where there's an assortment of other outpatient clinics. The area previously occupied is now a large building site, occupying half the original open green space on the 1960 architectural plan. Spare capacity is much needed as this is one of Wales' main teaching hospitals.

The hospital corridors were busy with staff and support workers moving around but less crowded than it was before the pandemic. Normal services are resuming, but more slowly, as patients must be managed mindful of the need to ensure safe distancing, a more measured workflow without queues, and very few people occupying waiting areas. Everyone is scrupulous about hand hygiene and mask wearing. I guess staff are relieved to be able to resume their normal duties and not have their clinics cancelled and be obliged to cover emergencies with pandemic victims. Covid-19 infected patients are met and managed in a separate zone. A great deal has been learned and put into practice these past six months.

After my examination, and discussion with the consultant anaesthetist I received a provisional go-ahead for the operation. My chest is still noisy with phlegm in the wake of the cold, but there are no signs of bronchitis. I'll need my GP to listen to my chest Monday next, to confirm that I am well on the way to full recovery, to stay on the surgery list for the 20th. There's still another two weeks in which to improve after that, two weeks in which Clare and I must self quarantine. I'll get a covid-19 test three days before to confirm that I am safe to work on in the routine manner. Let's just hope there'll be no more infection set backs in the coming twenty days.

The assessment took nearly two hours. It was still raining when I left the hospital, so I gave up the idea of walking home and took a taxi, just after Clare texted me to say that lunch would be on the table for me as soon as I got back as she'd just finished cooking. Later in the afternoon we went for a walk in the rain, and as we walked the rain got heavier and heavier. I decided to turn back, but Clare under her brolly marched on. I sheltered under a tree before setting off, then the rain slackened to a drizzle, so I resumed walking, and we both got home within minutes of each other from different directions three quarters of an hour later. By sunset, the sky was a clear inky blue, and the almost full Harvest moon was mid horizon. There'll be a second 'blue' moon, as it's called in the coming month. Let's hope it won't be an overcast night.

No end in sight to the mess we're in

Yesterday I booked an appointment at the Riverside wound clinic, which meant making an early start to walk there by ten past nine. When I arrived I discovered that I wasn't expected. The person who made the booking booked me into the first slot in the second room in the clinic which wasn't in operation. Only one nurse was on duty and she was waiting for a patient who was yet to arrive. I was able to book a slot for Thursday this week and take some medical supplies away with me.

Later I had a phone conversation with one of the GP team, reporting back on my condition after finishing the sixth course of antibiotics. My blood pressure hasn't dropped from its worryingly high level. I'm still waiting for a cardiology specialist appointment to address this concern, and tomorrow I have the pre-op assessment. We agreed it was likely to trigger a speedy examination to ascertain whether they would be able to operate on me, because of the three week time frame for preparing the surgical list. Tinkering about with medication in the meanwhile seems unwise. I was insistent that it's the state of the wound which is the root cause of the high blood pressure, just as it was before I had the first round of surgery twenty months ago. 

In other respects, I'm as fit and well as I can be. My daily walking mileage is back to normal, better in fact, after a few days last week when fighting off the cold led me to reduce by 20%. I've come through a heavy cold without setback, and my head has been a lot clearer in the past week or so. than it has been for a long time. I'm just hoping my immune system won't weaken further, in the run-up to the operation.

After a damp and misty yesterday, it's back to a warm sunny autumnal day today, no need for a top coat, good for the spirit. Infection rates continue to rise across Wales, and now four North Wales local authority areas have had restrictions imposed. Across the country there's a great deal of media fuss about how the so called 'rule of six' limit on people meeting socially is to be interpreted. Not even the Prime Minister can make it unequivocally clear. 

Is it so hard to say that it's better if people avoid face to face socialising altogether? The pandemic is trashing the economy globally and locally. It's going to drain the wealth of many if not all nations profoundly. Jobs will be lost, people will suffer, whether people can and do socialise in the short term or not. Socialising without strict constraints will cost lives. Many seem resistant to the need for any kind of constraint, and don't understand the risk they pose to others. 

This is a time to rethink what the healing of a community, of society as a whole really means, but not everybody gets it. Coming to our senses collectively and doing the right thing is proving much harder than it was hoped for. 

It was cousin Ivor's funeral today, just as Clare and I were sitting down to lunch. We remembered him in prayer, as we said grace. How long I wonder will it be before it's possible for remaining cousins to meet and celebrate the lives of those who have died since we were last able to hold a family gathering. How long before I'll be able to meet with my sister Pauline's family to celebrate her life together?

The most important think is not forgetting to keep on asking the question. 

Special birthday girl

I woke up late this morning with wound discomfort and found I'd leaked blood out of my dressing again. It's happened several times lately, and may be to do with being less active, sitting around for longer spells in the evening. Thankfully it wasn't a messy disaster, just a rather worrying repeat. There seems no simple way to relieve pressure from the wound area when I sit for any length of time. I have to move around often and not let it build up,and this inhibits both concentration and relaxation in different ways. I rang and booked an appointment for tomorrow morning to visit Riverside Wound Clinic for a check-up, but also, to ask advice about dressing and management of the wound, given recent changes.

Today is Clare's 75th birthday, and she was up early working out on her exercise bike while I cooked the porridge and laid breakfast. She opened her cards and presents afterwards, including two different CDs of 'cellist Sheku Kanneh-Mason from Kath and Owain, plus from me, a CD of Catrin Ffinch playing works by John Rutter and another of Cerys Matthews singing a variety of traditional Welsh folk songs, plus a few hymns and choruses that are part of the core Welsh cultural repertoire - all beautifully played and interpreted. So many tunes I have known since childhood, though not the words, sadly. 

Clare's Welsh language enthusiasm puts me to shame. I keep on telling myself that I should make more effort to learn Welsh properly, but Spanish retains my enthusiasm. I notice and listen when I hear Spanish speakers in the park, and am pleased when I understand what I overhear. Many more people I hear speaking Welsh, but rarely do I find I understand what they say, and it doesn't grab my attention.

There was a fine damp misty rain for much of the day, very low cloud, I suppose in reality. Clare and I went out to the shops together and I went out again separately later for a walk in the park, and to see if I could buy a nice pastry to serve as a mini-birthday cake. Unfortunately the small tart I bought had a custard filling, which is verboten in Clare's dairy free diet. So I scooped out the content, and replaced it with recently made blackberry puree plus soya cream, which, with a few candles around the flaky pastry case made just about the smallest birthday cake imaginable. I was also delighted to get a bunch of roses in an unusual shade of pink.

At eight after supper, we had a Zoom call with Owain, Kath, Anto and Rhiannon, plus Rachel and her friend Patrick. It's the first we've done for a month or so, occasioned by Owain and Kath being unable to come and join us to celebrate in person today. The call sped by, and we ran out of time before we could say goodbye or sing happy birthday, but it was lovely to be together anyway. I lost count of the number of phone calls and messages Clare had today. Such a happy time for her. Love laughs at lock-downs, and without violating restrictions or putting anyone at risk, admittedly these days, it's thanks to technology.

Just about every urban borough in Wales is now under restrictions to curb the contagion. We've got used to accepting limitations on our activities for reasons infirmity over the past eighteen months, so this has hardly any impact on us. It must be a nightmare for people whose entire work, domestic and social lives rely on their mobility.

Universities - a looming crisis

As I was getting up this morning, I listened to the Radio 4 'Sunday Worship' service. Harvest Festival with several traditional hymns pruned down to a couple of verses each for timing. It's a time of year when I can sing all the hymns off by heart, four to six verses long! Not being able to sing along to the complete hymn evoked an unexpected child-like reaction, like the kid who knows the bed time story off by heart, and corrects the adult reader if they miss a few lines or improvise. Harvest Lite! 

After breakfast, we watched Mother Frances celebrate the Sunday Eucharist broadcast from St John's. I wish it was possible for this to be done with a small socially distanced congregation, as the sound of just a couple of voices highlights the abnormality of what's being done. It was what we had to cope with during the severe lock-down months, but the presentation hasn't changed since, apart from shifting from being shot at the Rectory to being shot in church. 

One good thing about our Parish service, is that Mother Frances sounds like she's addressing a group, although only Andrew the Camera is with her. Often officiants on Radio Four sound like they are just addressing you personally, rather than a congregation. It's a broadcasting presenter's technique which works for 'Thought for the Day' and  'All things considered' and the such like, but it's less effective in a liturgical celebration, by nature a group activity.

Talking of 'Thought for the Day', yesterday's offering from Rob Marshall was reflecting on student life, in the news because of the covid-19 campus hot-spots. He recalled how European Universities grew out of the scholarly and teaching role of monastic communities a thousand years ago. His hope was that the old monastic community virtue of people looking out for one another for the common good would come to be seen as the best resource we have in overcoming the menace of contagion. 

Well and good. But Benedictine monasticism emphasised that love of learning and desire for God are inextricably linked. You can't say this holds good in modern secularised academia, where know-how and students are now commodities of industrialised learning, equipping the masses to maintain the global economy. Sure, the traditional notions of education as personal formation, and learning for its own sake still persist, but a materialistic environment has corrupted them. The element of high stakes competition, for glittering prizes dominates. It excludes or poisons the spiritual endeavour which should be at the heart of all learning. 

Many students are returning to campus, disappointed and disillusioned by the poor face to face contact time they are being given, because of the pandemic. With so much being done on-line what is the point of spending so much money on a campus based education, when an Open University degree would be so much cheaper and flexible? Is the modern university value for money, if it cannot deliver a guarantee of employment afterwards? These questions were already being asked before the pandemic. They are set to become more critical as the pandemic continues.

It wasn't obviously like that when I was a student or even a student chaplain a six years later, but I've witnessed the change over my working life, and now wonder if anything can be done to save these institutions from corruption. Competition means that people can end up looking out for themselves more than others, tribally if not individually. This might well be a factor at play in the difficulties now being faced in controlling campus contagion. 

There's no lack of altruism and charity in secular society, but alongside this, egotism is celebrated and greed considered good in making economic progress. The natural human selfish impulse is a huge asset to spreading covid-19. We may all pay heavily for the culture shift which has taken place in my lifetime.

Another waiting day

Thankfully, feeling better again today, making progress in overcoming this cold. As for the rest, we'll see in due course. The condition of the wound isn't improving. Too much sitting around has never done me any good. 

Saturday pancakes for breakfast again! Otherwise, another waiting day like yesterday, with a walk up to Llandaff Weir and the Cathedral on a bright and sunny afternoon. I didn't go into the Cathedral to pray, this time, but prayed outside the West door, as nobody was coming and going at that moment. I've kept myself at a good distance from people when out of the house this week, as I usually do anyway these days. Until my cold is over I  won't enter enclosed spaces.

Although Cardiff's new lockdown restrictions don't start until this evening, Media Wales reported that the city centre was considerably quieter yesterday evening than the week before. Pubs and clubs have to close earlier already, but any reduction in mass movement is going to make a difference. I wonder how the local student halls of residence are faring with contagion risk managment? In some other University cities there have been more outbreaks in halls. Only to be expected.  

Tomorrow we'll worship on-line. 'It is meet and right so to do' staying at home for the sake of others. 

Risky planning or planned risks?

I finished the sixth course of antibiotics this morning with a prayer that I won't need any more. It's hard to tell what difference this course has made right now, due to what the cold does to my head.  Once this goes completely away, I'll know from my blood pressure and how clear my head is whether it's worked.

There are signs that this wretched cold has done its worst. My nose wasn't streaming quite so heavily and I wasn't coughing as vehemently as I did yesterday. To my surprise however, any time I did cough was painful, not because of any soreness or inflammation in my lungs, but because every single muscle in my rib cage was stiff from the effort of coughing so much the day before. I felt as if I'd been in wrestling match and lost| It's a long time since I've had such a heavy streaming cold with so much coughing, there's no way to avoid stiffness in old, less used muscles. I was something unexpected and I'll have to live with it for a day or so, rest more, and cut down 20% on my daily walk.

It was a lovely autumnal day, a little on the cold side. The fresh air and sunshine did me good. Lounging in front of the telly all evening as I tend to at the moment does me little good, sitting for lengths of time generally ends up painfully uncomfortable, but I get fed up of spending so much time just lying down to recover if I'm tired. 

DuoLingo today pitched me an ad about the new NHS covid-19 tracking app for my phone. How public spirited! It was pleased not to have to hunt for this download, so recently launched, and now it's on my Blackberry. Saying that Cardiff is at a medium risk level from the virus.

As the second wave of contagion spreads around the U.K. as it has around much of the E.U. Cardiff and Swansea will now have travel and group meeting restrictions imposed this weekend, similar to those in force already in neighbouring local authority areas. But the app hasn't yet notified my of the coming change of risk level, only the news media. Just as well I'm not using the app to make plans for travel or work this weekend. I'm reminded of how NHS Wales took two days to email me instructions about self-quarantining, after my return from Ibiza. Two days for digital data to get from Heathrow Teminal 5 to Cardiff Bay and out to me. Two days in which, if I had been unwittingly infected, I could have sown chaos. I was in isolation four hours after landing, with a home run by car.

The new restrictions should have happened earlier in my opinion The authorities wait until evidence shows a critical growth pattern rather than cautiously anticipating the inevitable. Following the evidence when scrutiny reveals that on times evidence gathering contains inconsistencies, can rely delaying action. The track and trace system is at last improving, but not rapidly enough to keep up with demand generated by schools and colleges, as a growing number of localised outbreaks are reported daily. 

Much is been made of Universities welcoming the return of students. All that travel and socializing on arrival add to conditions promoting contagion. Such anxiety to resume a measure of normality, where caution would perhaps be more of a life saver. Of course on-line learning at every level all the time is hardly desirable, but wouldn't it have been better to avoid these institutional mass gatherings until real-time monitoring is actually working and in place?

Lying low

Another day of grogginess and coughing, thankfully without a high temperature. It may sound odd, but I knew I'd turned a corner after a huge bout of diarrhea this morning. It sometimes happens to me near the end of a course of antibiotics. There's no doubt that they can play havoc with the intestinal tract The common cold may be a virus, but some of the nasty bugs that accompany it dwell in the gut, and the horribly runny nose is the body's front line effort to chase them out of the body, I believe. By the evening my nose stopped running, coughing was reduced to getting rid of legacy gunk. It'll still take several days more to return to normal however.

Use of antibiotics tends to disrupt the gut anyway. That's no reason to try them as a cold cure. It was just a lucky coincidence I was taking them. In my days as Guild Chaplain in Birmingham, I recall hearing a microbiology lecturer say that any time he felt a cold was starting, he'd take a dose of something which would quickly result in bowel emptying, as he'd learned the cold would not then develop further. I guess it's a matter of giving the immune system a helping hand.

I took a shorter than usual walk in the park after lunch, and over on the tennis court fence noticed a grey wagtail. It was the same colour as the court surface when it flew down and away from me, not as easy to spot as a pied or yellow wagtail would be, and I've seen both kinds around here. 

I'm impressed to see day be day, how the park's tree management team has cleared fallen branches and trunks from the spell of high winds two weeks ago, tons of timber and branches were felled at the time and in the most urgent cases clearance work started after making the site safe within a few days, but it's been a long job to restore the grasslands to their normal tidiness. 

I learned today that Cousin Ivor's funeral is to take place on Michaelmass Day in a private ceremony at Cambridge Crem, in a chapel without video streaming available. I doubt if he'd have minded that. He always liked to be seen at his best, to make a good impression. After a few years of declining health and increasing dependency on carers robbing him of his pride, this seems appropriate, as is the assigned day. 

'May the angels lead him into Paradise....' 

Unexpected light

By the time I got up, I had a streaming head cold and immediately rang the Pre-op Assessment Unit to inform them and ask for an appointment deferral The person I spoke to thought that a delay of four days would be adequate, assuming it was just a cold - that's nine days from now. 

The worst of Clare's symptoms are receding already, so today she got dressed and tackled a few domestic tasks, taking time out to rest as well. After lunch I received an unexpected phone call from the colorectal surgeon's administrator at the hospital. She was aware of the change in my pre-op assessment date, and it seems this risked causing problems, as the team proposes to perform my surgery #4 on 20th October. I was surprised and amazed, to say the least, having expected another delay of many more months after the pre-op assessment whenever this gets done. Then came the big revelation!

The op will be done at The Spire private hospital in Pontprennau. Mrs Cornish is a specialist surgeon on their list, About a year ago I asked if she'd be willing to operate on me there at my expense, I was feeling so desperate. He response was admirably simple - "Sorry but no. I'm far too busy with NHS patients." In order to clear the waiting list backlog, NHS Wales is hiring the facilities and staff there. This is complex to prepare, as all the surgical records have to be digitized and emailed to The Spire for the benefit of the support team as well as Mrs Cornish. This part takes two weeks. The earlier the pre-op assessment can be done the better, in case there are any further pre-op investigations called for, given my recent ups and downs in health. 

So, I must get through this cold, avoid further infection and look for ways to get my blood pressure closer to normal in the coming weeks. It may not be so straightforward, but knowing that I am on track for treatment soon is a great stress buster. Not seeing an end to being stuck in Ibiza when I was so overdue to return home, then getting sick was traumatic, awakening dark memories of the months of waiting without knowing to get properly diagnosed for surgery in the autumn two years ago. It undermines you saps your resilience. For the second time in 24 hours my pre-op appointment has shifted two days earlier, and I'll get a call Monday morning to confirm I have recovered from the cold.

I've got a few more days of nursing myself, dosing with garlic and honey, making the house smell awful and taking life easy, even to the point of reducing my daily exercise, to recuperate, but at some level I am feeling better already. Shadows are giving way to light at last. Hallelujah!

The trials of getting a check-up

So now the government is imposing new constrictions on socialising, in an effort to curb the rapid growth of covid-19 infection. 10pm closing time for pubs and clubs with table service only, compulsory mask wearing indoors, no more than six people of different households to socialise at any time, and variants of this regionally. There are tighter restrictions, prohibiting un-necessary movement in and out of areas with high infection growth rates. As well as the boroughs of Caerphilly, and RCT, Bridgend and Merthyr are now areas of concern. 

How long before Cardiff joins the list, with its huge student population, and almost religious devotion to boozy nights out socialising in the city centre? It doesn't take a lot of people failing to take seriously the present and great danger of careless or indifferent socialising to boost contagion massively. That's what's happened, and may continue to happen unless everyone comes to their senses soon. 

Clare's weekend attempt to book a covid test on-line resulted in a phone conversation with a test 'n trace tracker this morning. It didn't produce an accessible test centre booking however, there was a disparity in the tracking reference numbers she'd been given and one which was against her name on the system. It happens sometimes said the lady, calling from home with a dog barking in the background. Which made me wonder - what happened to the idea of training covid-19 sniffer dogs? 

For the moment at least it's still possible to walk in the parks each day. I'm enjoying cooking and preparing meals. Few shopping trips are necessary, as Clare orders groceries on-line for home delivery. I had to pick up a prescription from the pharmacy this morning, but there was no need to visit the shops apart from this. There are very few chances to socialise. Churchgoing in a strictly distanced and sanitized environment works well. People don't hang around for long afterwards, just long enough to ask for news of each other's welfare and health.

Clare phoned me when I was nearing the end of my afternoon walk to tell me that the Hospital's Pre-op Assessment Unit just phoned with an offer of a date for a pre-op assessment, and I should ring pronto to arrange this. The assessment done in preparation for the final round of surgery in February expired at the end of July, by which time the op should have been performed. There was no hope of that happening this year, so at least my name hasn't got lost in the system, though I expect to have to wait many more months before the last op, unless my condition does give cause for concern. My GP has lobbied on my behalf several times lately for which I am most grateful. 

I called the Pre-op Unit just in time to speak to the person who had called and agreed a date next Monday morning. A few minutes after coming off the phone delighted at this small step of progress, Clare said "Did you mention that I have a cold, that we are self isolating and am chasing after a covid-19 test?" Then my heart sank. In the excitement of the moment, I'd forgotten this and not considered that the mild tickling sensation at the back of my nose that started after lunch might be the start of a cold for me. Or something worse. I rang back to arrange a postponement, but the line was unresponsive. By tomorrow, I'll know if it gets worse. In the meanwhile, lots of crushed garlic and honey.

Not so smart web

After breakfast this morning I took my blood pressure and was relieved that the average of three best readings wasn't as worryingly high as it has been lately, even if it is still high by doctor's benchmarks. I thought I should report back to my GP, and attempted to do so as requested, using the Practice website. It's mostly a portal to information streams about health concerns, with an auto-triage system to enquire about a vast range of medical and administrative concerns. But it is far from user friendly. It seems to have been designed by a medical encyclopedia geek, who really has little idea of what the system is like for end users. I couldn't find a way to send a simple report directly. 

After half an hour of trying to fit my report into a small message window on one of the pages and pressing send, an automatic message appeared telling me to phone the surgery or 111 urgently. So I rang the surgery and got the automatic queuing system. I didn't have to wait long to reach the head of the queue, but was then disconnected! So, I spent another half an hour writing and printing off a letter and then took it around to the surgery, giving a little feedback about the system. 

I find it amazing that the system is built round a complex series of interrogatory menus - heaven  help you if you don't describe symptoms or  use language in a culturally different frame of reference to that of the program designer. All those wild eyed enthusiasts in government and medical bureaucracy tell us how it's going to be great when A.I. systems make light work of diagnosing the ailments of the masses. It's the ultimate extension to the industrialisation of medicine in the past half century. Advocates are deaf to challenges about A.I. inbuilt discriminatory tendencies leading to sick people not being taken seriously in time of need, because they are atypical. 

Real human diagnosticians pick things up which no digital device ever could. The pandemic has forced medics to do much of their work without seeing or examining patients directly. Having a personal relationship with a GP over years is being replaced by being acquainted with a practice medical team which may or may not have enough useful specific knowledge to make an accurate diagnosis. Loads of unread notes in a file system, digital or paper, aren't information giving a whole picture. Someone suffering may tell their story differently to different medics. Sure diagnostic tools are most valuable but not as valuable as personal knowledge of someone, mutual regard and trust.

Having spent a week taking my Olympus OM-D with me on my daily walk, I took the Sony Alpha 68 out with me today for a change. With my long telephoto lens, over twice the weight of the Olympus, it's noticeably more demanding to carry. I took a lot more photos in one day than I've been taking with the Olympus, it's a lot more flexible in the range of photos you can take with it, maybe too because I'm used to it, I take more advantage of it. The Olympus telephoto lens is not nearly as flexible, even though it's very light in comparison. I'm lucky to have interesting kit to play with, to see how I can get the best photos of subjects that please me eye, mostly landscapes, building and trees in different light.

This evening I finally watched the NCIS episode in which Pauley Perret aka forensic genius Abbi Sciuto leaves the series. It was controversial when it was first aired a couple of years ago and I had already read a summary of the story. Interesting to see how it was presented, however, discreetly sidestepping the brrakdown in relationship between Perrette and Mark Harmon the show's lead actor and co-director.

Space-maker jubilee

By the time I got around to printing my sermon, first thing the morning I was satisfied with its content, and use the thematic headline 'Blessed are the space-makers, for they shall be called God's people' to introduce it. Conscious of not being on my best form physically, I was a tad nervous, but fine once I got started. To make this occasion special for me personally, I wore the white stole with blue satin Greek crosses on it which Clare made for me to wear for both my ordinations from a piece of her wedding dress silk. It's travelled with me and been used in many places, and its most frequent use has been in taking the Sacrament to the sick and housebound. Amazingly, it's still in good condition, and responded well when it was given a gentle wash some time ago. 

Having Emma distribute Communion worked well. We were thirty four adults and four children, a steady number now from week to week, everyone masked up, taking seriously each other's need to be safe and secure. At the end of the service Emma presented me with a mini party cake and a bottle of Veuve Cliquot champagne - plus an IOU a party card of congratulation. A lovely touch bearing the promise of better safer times to come, when there will be lots for us all to celebrate together. 

Clare was feeling under the weather and didn't come, but stayed in bed, in self quarantine, to be on the safe side. So I was glad to be wearing the stole she made for me beneath the green chasuble of the day. She suspected she was starting a cold in Friday so we kept apart. Often over the years, she's gone down with a cold in and around her birthday, but I don't. She speaks of it now as the time of year when her constitution is at its weakest, and has taken all the required precautions about her business away from home. Sure she'd be happier if she could get eliminated with a covid test., but when she checked the website the nearest test bookable was Taunton. It's a joke, a shambles.

A good walk in the park in the afternoon, then in the evening on BBC Four - an Australian arthaus film called 'The Ghan'. It documents the 3600 mile train journey from Adelaide to Darwin, featinging one of the largest passenger trains in the world over its fifty five hour trip. There's very little commentary apart from the train conductor, no interviews, and the sound track consists solely of the music the train makes as it travels through different environments. The terrain is awesomely beautiful, even if largely flat. It's compelling to watch. Such historical and cultural narration as there is is carried in text messages which float into view as the journey progresses. When historical matters are considered, the film goes into black and white mode. It's slow TV, a feast for eyes and ears, restful and fascinating at the same time. It made me think of the long train journeys we've made across Europe. Will we ever repeat them again I wonder?

On this day

Fifty years ago today I was ordained priest by Archbishop Glyn Simon in Llandaff Cathedral. I often think about that moment, kneeling under Epstein's glorious 'Majestas' sculpture. I see his masterwork, as being a Son of Man image, given the Christ figure has no wounds. When he was Dean of Llandaff after the war he Dean Glyn was the driving force of Cathedral restoration after bomb damage, and the installation of the 'Majestas' was part of that, and controversial from the start. It looks as fresh and engaging today as it did when I first saw it as a kid sixty years ago. It still says to me 'And who is this man?'

I was in awe of +Glyn when I met him as an undergraduate in Bristol. His son Nick was in the same hall of residence as I was, and on an occasion when +Glyn visited, I invited him and his to tea in my room. He was a quiet scholarly mild mannered man. I'm not sure if at that time I was thinking about ordination, but the fact that he accepted my invitation made an impression on me. It was many years later I discovered that in his early career he had been Warden of Church Hostel in Bangor, a student residence for theologians and ordinands. Being at ease with students came naturally to him.

He was a year away from retirement at the time of my ordination, and suffering from Parkinson's disease. Typically flippant and tasteless in their irreverent banter, some ordinands speculated about whether the Holy Spirit would 'take' to the candidate from trembling hands. Some bizarre understandings of the grace of Holy Orders as a kind of magical ritual contagion knocked around in those days. It didn't reflect what was learned at College, but acquired on the way there from eccentric traditionalists.

We started the day with our usual Saturday pancake breakfast. I finished the sermon and went to the shops before cooking lunch, an experiment with stuffed peppers for me and a making veggie burgers for Clare, using couscous and soya mince. A learning experience. I did two shorter walks in the afternoon to vary my activity pattern to mitigate the problem of painful feet after a long walk. I'm need to insert more rest into my physical activity I think, being a bit fragile at the moment with unresolved blood pressure and wound infection concerns. Accepting that I'm more vulnerable these days is very hard. I wish I was fifty years younger, without the inexperience and lack of confidence of course!

It struck me that +Glyn's trembling hands and voice were a sign of vulnerability in a person of authority and spiritual leadership in the Welsh Church. That give a senses of perspective, reminding those who are in awe of power that Christ's strength is perfected in our weakness. Tomorrow's sermon is going to be about ordination as making space for a person to lead and serve the community, and in that space, to make space for others to be and become truly themselves. 

I've often wondered how I was found acceptable for ordination when I was just enthusiastic but lacking in certainty, confidence, and competence as well it seems to me. It's taken a long time to understand that others made space for me to be and become myself in ministry. It's what's happening at the heart of all the sacramental actions of the church. The Holy Spirit is the Comforter - the Hebrew word for 'comfort' means to make space for others. It's what it means to be Church for others. I'm sad and ashamed that so often the Church falls short in something as simple as this.

Change of role

I woke up to a bright sunny day with big gusts of wind now and then, realising that the condition of my wound is still deteriorating, I called the surgery and asked for another GP phone call. I've been prescribed a sixth course of antibiotics and given the A&E number to call if it doesn't improve over the weekend. I'm not as feeling poorly as I did a couple of weeks ago. My blood pressure may still be high, something needs to change. Hopefully there'll be further action on this next week. Meanwhile it's 'keep on taking the pills'. Daunting really.

Still working on my Jubilee Sunday sermon, developing an idea that's been brewing all week but not yet ready to finalise. Finding it difficult to do something other than just reminisce. I cooked a stir fry with prawns and rice for lunch. Not my usual fare but it turned out satisfactorily. I hope my sermon will too.

During my walk in the park I saw a group of young adults having fun making clouds of bubbles, and took a few photos of them. As I was leaving, one of the girls ran over and asked if I could email her the photos, which I did when I got home, A couple of hours later I had a thank you from her. With a little editing they turned out nicely.

I watched a quirky detective show on 5USA in the evening, the last in a series I've not bothered to watch, but on this occasion I did bother because the guest star was William Shatner aka Captain Kirk, playing an elderly Jewish private eye, somewhat rogueish in character. It's the first time I've seen Shatner in anything other than a Star Trek uniform, let alone in a fully comic role. He's a very good character actor.

Seen with different eyes.

I asked for another telephone conversation with my GP this morning, to report back on how I have been since completing the last course of antibiotics. I can't say I'm happy with my progress. My blood pressure is still frighteningly high on times, and my pulse can be very variable. I'm unused to dealing with this. It saps my confidence. Nothing new came from the conversation, except a promise to chase up a hypertension cardio specialist appointment asked for a month ago, and another chase up letter of concern to the colorectal surgery team, from whom I have heard nothing since mid November last year. The only remedy for the acute pain in the soles of my feet after walking my daily 10k is paracetamol, or not walking as much. No suggestions about prevention or cure. Maybe I can reduce the impact by not walking the whole distance quota in one go. As I had to wait at home to receive the doctor's call, it came too late for me to got to St John's for today's Eucharist, but it couldn't be helped.

I'm sure the open wound is deteriorating and impacting on my central nervous system, because of where the wound is located, plus the stress of fighting infection and the complex muscular movements entailed in every aspect of movement daily. Being old, I doubt if I'm going to be a priority. A fifty percent success rate with this treatment, I was told. Unless you die before completion. I should have been operated on by the end of June, by the department's own estimation. Five months on hold due to covid-19, and more crisis management to come. Chance of death before completion of the treatment is bound to increase. There could be thousands of others in the same position as me, and some will already have lost their lives, not due to covid 10, but for lack of treatment, which won't appear on death certificates, and only vaguely reflected in excess deaths statistics.

I tried out my new Olympus camera with different lenses today, in the garden, and walking around the park. The 40-150 lens works differently from the other telephoto lenses I use and isn't as flexible. It's necessary to stand a lot further away to fully frame a subject, and then zoom in for detail. It's fine you're picking a subject at a distance, say a ship off-shore, and then want to home in on its flag, or the bridge. The wide angle kit lens, however is very good, but this too will call for a more practice to get the best from. I like the colour quality and sharpness of the images I get with it, and the lightness of the camera, which is robust as well. That's a real bonus.

A super sunny autumnal day with lovely colours developing, crowned in the evening by a showing on BBC Four of the classic award winning 1942 black and white movie 'Casablanca, starring Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Berman, and Doolie Wilson as Sam the jazz singer, plus many other actors who went on to have distinguished careers. I listened carefully throughout. Bogart never actually says 'Play it again Sam' but similar varied phrases referring to the move signature tune 'As time goes by'. The photography is superbly atmospheric and the wisecracking dialogue remarkable. It's perhaps the third time I've seen it in my lifetime, I could watch it again tomorrow, as it's laden with powerful yet almost understated themes, which are sill relevant, given that Casablanca is a bit like contemporary Calais, and staging post for refugees in transit, except most of these refugees are monied, though just as desperate and helpless as the poor masses.   

Another cousin lost

I celebrated the midweek Eucharist at St Catherine's this morning with a dozen people. I wasn't quite on top form, as I put on mask and gloves when I went up to the altar for the Lord's Supper, instead of donning them to distribute Communion after the Eucharistic prayers. I was audible it seems, but the mask worked loose with the movement generated as I spoke, then nearly came off as I started distributing Communion. I should have tested wearing a new design of mask beforehand. I also overlooked one communicant and was puzzled for a moment to find I had one host left, before I was alerted to my omission. 

Oh dear, I didn't have this trouble at St John's the week before last. Working around all the pews to distribute to people in a much larger space is more difficult, you can't build a mental map of the whole congregation to work from so easily. I'm here again on Sunday for my Golden Jubilee Eucharist, but Emma has agreed to distribute Communion, when I have preached and presided, to emphasise the partnership in ministry we share. That already seemed right to do, when we first organised it. 

I went into town in the afternoon, and succumbed to the temptation to buy myself an Olympus Micro Four Thirds camera, second hand, with two lenses, at half the original price. My curiosity about the Micro Four Thirds digital format got the better of me I'm afraid. It's the first model in a series of three, the OMD E-M10 mark one, and came out six years ago. Its great virtues are its lightness and compactness, plus its tech wizardry producing sharp images. I shall enjoy getting to know what it's capable of. If I'm not happy with it, I can part exchange the kit for something different to try out. This year I've earned more than I've spent, so I'm trying hard not to feel guilty about indulging in my hobby, and maybe learning a few new things.

By the time I got back home, I was too tired to take it for a walk, and the camera battery needed charging. We had supper, and ony then did I notice that the sun was already setting. Earlier twilight seems to have crept up on me this last few weeks. We're well into autumn now, and trees are starting to change colour, though not yet shedding huge quantities of leaves, despite recent winds.

I had an email from cousin Dianne to say that Cousin Ivor had died, after a few days in hospital following a massive stroke. It wasn't easy to keep in touch with him. His phone often out of service, no answer to letters. The last time we saw him was five years ago in his new retirement flat in Cambridge, still coming to terms with wheelchair life after losing his leg. We've not gone that far by car since then. 

Life in retirement was cruel to him, losing a leg to diabetes, breaking neck vertebrae in a fall. Before that, he was diagnosed with bi-polar disorder, having got away with being a creative workaholic for most of his life. In the last part of his career he taught architecture in Newcastle University, and enjoyed mentoring students, but maybe it wasn't best move, as it's such a competitive hierarchical environment, far removed from working with artists, engineers and craftsmen for most of his life. Right to the end, his design work was done with immaculate, precisely detailed pencil and paper drawings, good enough to be scanned and printed for use. He didn't like using computers or tablets and only did the minimum with any smartphone. Very Old School. 

Remembering The Few

Warm and sunny weather has stayed with us this past few days, perfect for walking, and outdoor sports pursuits as well, despite new restrictions imposed on numbers able to meet, whether at home or in the open air. At last, face mask wearing in enclosed spaces has become obligatory, something I approve of and have continued to practice since my time under Ibiza in lockdown.

Yesterday afternoon I walked into town to visit the Castle Welsh Crafts souvenir shop opposite the Castle. Last week Clare bought a face mask there, made of material printed with 'Y draig goch' the Welsh national flag on it. Sister June said she wanted one, and I thought it was time I flew the flag as well. A small way of recognising and complying with the Senedd's independent health regulation policy. Though devolved governance, the three Celtic nations exercise judgement in tune with local data received, like autonomous regional governments in Spain, and that's no bad thing as Westminster issues confusing mixed messages and changes them inexplicably at short notice, or so it seems to those on the receiving end.

There was a TV news item about the making of Welsh dragon face masks last week. I was lucky to be able to buy a couple as the shop had almost entirely sold out of both designs on offer. The staff were delighted with the attention the broadcast won them with orders coming from far and wide.

Out on Llandaff Fields early evening, four volleyball courts had been set up, there was a junior football match going on, a weight training session going on, a junior rugby training game going on, and several dozen boys and girls plus parents and coaches of Cardiff Junior Athletics club also in a training session, not to mention a mixed age Parkrun group, which seems to meet in the Fields several evening as week. Indoor gyms and pools have re-opened, but some prefer to continue fitness training outdoors while the weather remains kind. I stick to walking my 10k quota each day, still with a high measure of success.

This morning I drove out to Thornhill for a funeral at midday. I assumed it was in the smaller of the two chapels, as there were only going to be a small congregation, so I was confused when I arrived to find that nothing was scheduled to take place in the smaller chapel until the afternoon. Fortunately I was very early and soon discovered that the service I was to take was listed in the larger one. We were nine altogether, in a chapel which even with socially distanced seats can take twice the permitted number of thirty. We didn't sing, but three well chosen recordings of Welsh hymns by Treorchy Male voice choir were played instead, and I gave a eulogy written from notes provided by the deceased's son-in-law.

Clare went out picking blackberries in Pontcanna Fields after tea, and I went and joined her later, as I was relaxed and dozing when she announced she was going out. I had a good idea of where she's go and easily found her in a bramble hedge near Blackweir Bridge. We returned with over 550 grams for cooking and sieving to give us more jars of delicious blackberry puree.

There was a lovely programme on BBC TV this evening celebrating the 80th anniversary of the Battle of Britain. It told the story of those critical weeks of August and September 1940, and included footage of interviews with surviving pilots taken ten to twenty years ago. What was new was a retired RAF Tornado pilot, fulfilling a boyhood dream of of flying a Spitfire. Actually it was an excellent narrative device for showing what sort of training regime lads of around twenty years old were given, learning to fly, some of them from scratch in a matter of months - first in a Tiger Moth, and then a heavier Harvard, before being allowed to learn to fly a Spitfire. Such a contrast to several years of training required for a RAF pilot half a century later. For me a happy hour's recollection of tales I heard and read about my boyhood heroes who saved Britain from Nazi peril. 

Extinction alarm call

There were three dozen of us again for the Parish Eucharist at St Catherine's this morning. We may all be required to wear masks in church next week, in the light of Welsh government anti-covid measures in the face of rising infection rates. But there's no ban on public worship envisaged at the moment, hopefully.

There was a warm wind blowing clouds around in a mostly blue sky when I took my afternoon walk. Some trees have leaves that are turning colour, from late summer darker green to brown and gold. In the hawthorn hedge along the northern boundary of Pontcanna Fields, I heard clicking sounds from within, scores of them, and then the distinctive shrill call of a single starling. Now I know where they roost before emerging to forage for insects around tea time. I often see them out on the grass, pecking around, and then suddenly bursting into the air in formation before settling in another spot.

In the evening we watched David Attenborough's latest documentary 'Extinction', bringing together all the facts experts are able to muster about the rapidly rising biodiversity and species loss meaning measured around the planet. Even more profoundly disturbing than the stark reality exposed, is the aggressive denial by some politicians and industrialists who deny the seriousness of the problem, and maybe benefit from the continued abuse and exploitation of nature. 

Attenborough voices hope against hope, believing there is still time for people to change their consumption habits, and for nature to bounce back if conservation is taken with utmost seriousness by most of the powers that be. I wish I had such confidence! Far too many people are selfish, inconsiderate of others, as we've seen with the widespread flouting of anti-contagion measures since strict lowdown rules were relaxed. We may already have run out of time to repent with fatal consequences - our own extinction.

A Last Night to remember

After a lie-in and our usual Saturday pancake breakfast, we decided on a picnic lunch by the sea. Clare made some sandwiches and then we drove to Barry. It was sunny and warm, and surprisingly the beach was not excessively crowded. The water was warm enough to swim in, though with the tide far out, more were paddling There were many small families with young children, and young couples, well spaced out, all behaving themselves. The town council has banned all alcoholic drinks, barbecues and fires from the beach and promenade, and what a difference this has made to the environment! 

The sand looks better, cleaner for being raked daily. Litter bins are up on the prom, though not, as far as I could see, on the beach. Regular bi-lingual loudspeaker announcements broadcast reminders of social distancing and ask visitors to take away their rubbish, either home or to a bin on the prom. A squad of half a dozen council beach wardens keep the prom tidy and patrol the beach to monitor compliance to the rules. The funfair, as well as building facades have had a makeover so the seafront has lost its shabby jaded appearance and looks bright and fresh. Several key scenes in the family comedy series 'Gavin and Stacey were shot here. Fans visit from all over the world, so the environmental uplift is a great means to of promote the resort.

We were lucky enough to find a free two hour parking space, just behind the beach, giving us time to eat our picnic and stroll on the beach and the Friars' Point headland above, before driving over to Cold Knap beach and a walk on the clifftop coastal path, as far as Porthkerry woods. A lovely outing.

When we got back I found an envelope had been delivered containing the eulogy for me to deliver at Tuesday's funeral. It was handwritten, so I set about transcribing and editing it for reading aloud after supper, listening to the start of the BBC Proms last night concert as I worked, then joined Clare in front of the telly for the second half. It was brilliantly devised, produced and executed, a credit to the BEEB, a great showcase for one of the few unique world class institutions we still have left. 

All the musical performances were outstanding. The presence on-line of a select audience at a distance was well integrated into the whole, not overdone. It wasn't just 'same old, same old' sentiment laden diet, but it was both contemporary, and the traditional with a spring in its step, charged with resurgent energy, Some of the pieces were taken at a breathtaking pace, impossible to sustain without risking a riot with a huge live audience. That was special, even if the emptiness of the Albert Hall was ominous and sobering, given the doubts surrounding its future finance. 

I wish I could be as optimistic about next year's Proms as the TV presenters. It's not going to be so slick and easy are we presume to return to normal, not even the 'new normal' whatever we wish for. Tragically, this crisis is too complex for that. Even more tragically, we brought it on ourselves.

On the bus again

There were ten of us at the St John's midweek Eucharist this morning. It wasn't warm enough to sit outside and chat afterwards, so the congregation quickly dispersed. I stayed to chat with Benedict and Emma for a while afterwards, to check with Emma about the details of my 50th anniversary Eucharist celebration the Sunday after next. I'm going to preside and preach and she'll distribute Communion as usual. I suggested this as thought it would serve as a positive witness to partnership in ministry. 

I had a couple of parcels to post, and was surprised that nobody was queuing either inside or outside the local Post Office. It's quite unusual. Having heard that Riverside clinic was open to patients, so I then went to see if the wound clinic was open as well, being in need of another  box of dressing pads. Thankfully it was business as usual. Home then, to cook lunch

Later, we decided to walk into town together, but we saw a couple of people standing by the 61 bus stop outside Conway Road Methodist Church. On impulse we decided to take the bus as one was approaching. It was the first time for both of us to use public transport since February. 

It's good that wearing masks is now obligatory. Everyone must be seated, passenger capacity is limited. Sideways seats behind the driver are cordoned off and unused, waiting in the area closest to the door is banned. No standing allowed.  I've noticed the heads up destination board on the front of buses can now display a sign saying 'Sorry, bus full'.  It's just as well fewer people are frequenting the city centre at the moment, otherwise bus queues would be long and tempers frayed.

Just after we arrived, Clare realised that due to catching the bus, she'd forgotten to collect a prescription she needed, so she turned straight around straight and walked back to the pharmacy in Canton before it closed. It wasn't long before I lost interest was heading for home through the park.

After supper, Beethoven's 7th symphony was being broadcast from the Albert Hall, in the BBC Proms series. Rather than watch it, I listened on the BBC Sounds app, piped through the sound system in my study, while I added a few pages to my novel, still wondering just how I'm going to bring it to an end. The story-line seems to have evolved with a life of its own until lately. Now it seems to require a lot more effort from me to complete.  

Dai, my main character has an interesting life, mostly happy, free from dramatic suffering and tragedy. He experiences the loss of all the significant others in his life when young, and for years, although sociable, lives alone, works hard as a craftsman, capable, self-reliant, abiding by what others have taught him, always dwelling in the moment. Love comes to meet him mid-life. Being a family man transforms him. He goes from a wanderer's life to settling down and raising a family, returning to his home town, nurtured by his past but never yearning for it. 

He's a gifted performer with no desire to impress. He's content to sing and tell stories, to share the pleasure he finds in folk music. His satisfaction lies in the pleasure of doing everything well, in being appreciated without needing fame and fortune to boost his ego. He's lucky to be spared misfortune and knows it, never taking anything for granted. Raised attending Church, he isn't devout or conventionally religious, yet his life is deeply informed by what he absorbed unconsciously in his choirboy years. He doesn't need to speak about it, but live it modestly, to the full. Not quite an Everyman figure, but I think I've met many like him through my years of ministry, inside and well outside the church.

I've still no idea where Dai came from in my imagination, except that I'd been reflecting on growing up in the South Wales Valleys and wrote a pen portrait of a local character in my home town last year, as an exercise in creative writing. The cousin Dianne persuaded me to write a few pieces about the 1980 St Paul's riots, and Dai emerged from my unconscious in the middle of this exercise. Strange!

Bakery treat

Clare went into school early this morning to have a covid-19 test, as this is on offer to staff and visiting teachers, She hasn't resumed her weekly kindergarten eurythmy sessions yet, but would like to. Her test was negative, which means there's no evidence that she's had it or has it. If she ever did it would be over six months ago, so fragments of covid DNA would by now be undetectable by means of the simple test. By inference, it means I'm unlikely also to have had it previously, as neither of us did any social mixing before I went to Ibiza. We're both still in the higher risk of infection category, but hopefully our present lifestyle and precautions help to minimise the possibilitty of catching it.

There were eight of us for the St Catherine's Eucharist this morning, four clergy, four laity. On impulse, I walked home via 'The Hot Pantry' bakery and bought one of their superb 'Donka' rye loaves, and to eat with our morning coffee, a croissant, a pain au raisin and a Chelsea bun. It's decades since I've eaten one of these. There were sitting there, looking good and fresh, not plastic wrapped, so I yielded to temptation to try once more this childhood favourite, enjoyed long before pains au raisin came on the scene. And it didn't disappoint! We're fortunate to have an independent bakery in our neighbourhood, and don't use it enough because it's not on our habitual shopping route. We need to change that!

I made a contactless card payment, as I have done habitually over the past two months, and no longer carry cash about. I'm not sure about the wisdom of this, as I don't want to see real money disappear. The lady who served me said that the majority of people since lock-down are paying contactless, but over the past few weeks she'd seen an increase in cash payments again, so maybe others share my misgivings.

I cooked a pasta lunch, with different sugos for us. chicken in mine and a veegan soya mince for Clare, enough for two days meals for both of us. Then I walked into town, to visit Camerland and take a photo of a specialist camera bag to show Clare. I asked about the second hand Olympus OM-D E-M5 they had on their website, and learned that it had been sold, but they do have others occasionally. It's a pity there's no way I could hire or borrow one to try out. 

I'm curious about Micro Four Thirds cameras as they are much praised by enthusiastic users. But I'd rather not pay the full price, but buy a used one at a reasonable price to satisfy my curiosity. Above all, the thought of its lighter weight that appeals. I'm thinking about a proper padded camera bag for my DSLR kit because carry around a one or more changes of lens is always a packing hassle with a normal rucksack.

After supper and a little telly, I hunted for a piece of writing about St Paul's at the time of the riot, which I started before going to Ibiza but didn't finish off. It took me ages to find it as it wasn't file with other similar pieces, but once tracked down and re-read, I completed the edit. It's still not as satisfactory as other pieces I wrote about St Paul's, not as driven by the vividness of the narrative. Is it still a work in progress or not? I wonder. 

Blogger improvement improved

Nothing much to say about yesterday. It was uneventful except for walking into town to get a few things for Clare from Lakeland and finished editing the completed texts of the six reflections on priesthood for the Benefice Facebook page. All that remained was to find images to match the theme of each, to draw attention to the posting of the day. 

I got around to it this morning, settling for Byzantine icons, then had to figure out how to send docx files to Emma for uploading via WhtasApp. I'd created the files in Google docs, and didn't want the fiddle of sending a link to the page, but rather a proper copy of the file in question. I could only download a pdf to attach however. Normally this is all I need, but couldn't risk sending these for upload to Facebook in case it didn't work. Eventually I found a way to download the docx files from Google Drive, and attach them, one at a time to WhatsApp messages for sending. Hopefully these won't break.

Since the weekend, there have been several welcome changes in the Blogger user interface. Once again  what you type in the 'Labels' subject search box is immediately visible and it offers suggestions quickly. Instead of burying the 'page justification' icon in a slow drop-down menu, it's back on top in its old position. A welcome improvement. There's still a drop-down menu, but it contains less used format items now. The new interface became the default last month, but features I moaned about at the time have only been changed now, three weeks later. What took them so long? I wonder how many other users complained?

Fruitful times

Fr Rhys presided and Fr Benedict preached at the St Catherine's Parish Eucharist this morning. There were twenty eight adults and this week eight children present, two of them on duty at the welcome desk, so very nice to see. Among the produce on sale from the church garden afterwards were apples from the tree that used to be in our garden but never did well. It's bearing much fruit in its new home. We didn't need to buy any however, as Roger gave us an excess of apples and pears a neighbour shared with him. But we did buy some freshly picked cherry tomatoes and a couple of courgettes. 

It's been ideal growing weather this year, a consolation in a time when human life has been disrupted and blighted by covid-19. Our runner bean plants, last to be planted and flourish, have given us enough for several meals, an encouragement to try again next year. Clare's roses have continued to produce beautiful healthy flowers throughout the summer, their colours brightening our lives.

I worked again on the set of six reflections on priesthood which I'm doing for the Parish Facebook page. I done five of them completed, save a final edit and check, and after walking in the parish this afternoon did a draft of a sixth late in the evening before bed. It needs drastic cutting back, but I have a few more days before the deadline to finish the job.  It's time I finished of that first draft of my short story which grew into a full length novel too. 

Perhaps completing one project will spur me on to complete the other, who knows? It's about a man's life and his love of folk music. How will it end? I ask myself. Or at what point can I leave his story unfinished? I heard hat the lady whose funeral I am taking next week, died on her 100th birthday before her greeting card from the Queen arrived. Was she disappointed, or relieved to let go? We may never know.

Masterpiece recalled

We got up a little later than usual yesterday and enjoyed our special Saturday pancake breakfast, both made phone calls, and then it was time to cook lunch. Where does the time go to so quickly?

After lunch, I walked to Aldi's to buy some wine. I needed the exercise but it was pretty painful for much of the way there and back. There was nothing worth watching on telly, so we sat quietly in the lounge, Clare reading and me writing. One highlight after supper before we settled down, was a radio programme by Simon Scharma, in a series where he gives a guided tour of Europe's major art collections. Last week it was the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam. This week it was the Prado in Madrid.

Not only is he a great enthusiast for his subjects, but he has a very graphic way with words which kindle the imagination when he is describing a great painting and putting it in its historical and social context. I felt no need to go on-line and visit the website containing images of the paintings he talked about, as his descriptions were so vivid. I realised this, as one of the paintings he talked about was Picasso's 'Guernica, which isn't in the Prado, but in Madrid's Museo Reina Sofia. It's a painting we remember well.

When I was priested, back in September 1970, I was asked what gift the parish could offer me to celebrate my ordination. I chose a big reproduction of 'Guernica' to fit on the Vicarage dining room wall, above the fireplace. In retrospect, it seems a little bizarre, given that most new priests ask for a stole or a chalice, but I guess, being teens in the early sixties, during the Cuba missile crisis, remembering what I'd learned from my parents about Nazi concentration camps and the Jewish Holocaust, plus the influence of Taize, I saw ministry in terms of reconciliation and building peace, through the sharing of the Gospel. 

That painting was a stark reminder of the suffering war causes, never to be forgotten. It had pride of place in several parsonages, until we moved to Geneva, some twenty two years later. It went into storage in our newly purchased home base, where we now live in retirement, and never made it back to a living room wall. It was too big in a smaller house, and after nine years tucked away in less than perfect conditions it began to deteriorate, sad to say, and ended up being recycled.

On my to-do list when the pandemic has abated and a sembance of normality returns to foreign travel, I look forward to a trip to Madrid, to see the Prado, and Picasso's Guernica in real life, for the first time.

A memorable Prom

True to form, I received a phone call from my GP after breakfast this morning, a little shorter than the last time, perhaps because I'd better described my symptoms. She acknowledged my concern and prescribed another week's course of antibiotics to see if this will deal with the low level infection, and help reduce my blood pressure to what it used to be. I went out, collected the prescription and took it to the Boots pharmacy to make sure I could start taking the tablets this afternoon.

I returned home and cooked lunch for myself, as Clare was out to lunch with a friend. Then I walked into town, to investigate camera bags, as I'd like a dedicated bag for keeping safely my DSLR plus a couple of lenses. I was surprised at how expensive they are, but maybe I could ask for one as a Christmas present.

On the walk home I started to experience acute pain in my right foot, which made walking difficult and slow. I think a bone has been displaced enough to cause trouble when my muscles are warmed up. I will have to get some osteo treatment for this pretty soon, as it's quite disabling.

In the evening we listened to the BBC Prom on telly, featuring the playing and compositions of Anoushka Shankar, the daughter of Ravi Shankar, the greatest 20th century master of the Sitar and champion of Indian classical music. One of the first 33rpm long playing records we bought some fifty years ago was of Ravi Shankar playing ragas. Whether or not we learned about him from his association with the Beatles' George Harrison, or by some other means, I don't now remember, but it opened a door to another world of music, alongside that opened to Byzantine music by our backpacking trips to Greece in the late '60s. 

It was a wonderful evening of music, especially interesting because of the duet she did with Gold Panda, an electronic music artist, with whom she has developed a boundary breaking collaboration. Faithful to her cultural tradition yet confident exploring new dimensions of music making, just as her Dad did. He'd be really proud of her, playing a Prom on the centenary of his birth.

 

A return to the altar

This sunny morning, when I joined the congregation at St John's for the Eucharist, it was an occasion with special significance for me. It was the first time for me to lead worship with nine people from God's altar for the first time since March 8th. Fr Benedict was there ahead of me to open up and keep an eye on me as I went through the safety procedures for the first time under the 'new normal' regime. For the most part it was just like any other service I've taken at St John's. It was just a matter of observing anti-contamination measures correctly. It's easy with a few communicants, and would be more difficult on a Sunday with three or four times the number, not to miss anyone out when distributing Communion to people in their places. 

I had resigned myself to not being called upon to take services again, due to my age and vulnerability. The concern has been highlighted by the CofE, but less obviously stated in the Church in Wales. Since I've been back in Wales I've taken two funerals and have a third booked. As long as it's deemed permissible, I am happy to be called upon when need arises. In the meanwhile, I remain content to be a worshipper with the people, instead of always leading the people. My sense of being part of the Body of Christ, and all that it means in relationship to God, has, I think, deepened this past six months of idleness.

Mark arrived and joined us for the service. He said he might come by to check out the venue for a music and iconography project which he and Fran are hoping to put together this autumn. As he was on his way to a gig rehearsal, he had his violin with him, so asked if he's like to play something to test the acoustics, which he then did, playing by heart three different movements from Bach solo instrumental pieces. It was a sweet sound, as the church acoustics are very good, especially with fewer chairs laid out, as is the case at present. What a lovely treat. Fr Benedict was there and when we explained about the project in hand, he expressed his enthusiasm for the idea, especially as it's something that can be done well on a small scale, which is really what's possible under current regulations. Watch this space!

Again, I intended to go shopping in town after lunch, but ended up walking to Splott the other side of the city centre to retrieve the car from its MOT test, once more successfully, thank heavens. It took an hour and twenty minutes to get there, a bit longer than I had expected. I think I was walking slower than usual as my energy level was down. I suspect that I still have a low level wound infection my body is trying to fight off, as I go through periods when I feel tired and foggy, and times when I am my usual self. When I took my blood pressure it was worryingly high, and not much changed from what it was a few weeks ago. After supper I wrote to my GP, to inform her of what's happening, requesting a telephone consultation, and then I took the letter around to the surgery.

It's odd. The afternoon tiredness had worn off, and it was no effort to walk to the surgery and back. When I checked my daily walking distance, I found that I'd walked thirteen and a half kilometres, thirty per cent more than what I usually cover. I simply don't know what to make of this, and hope the doctor will.

St David to tea in the garden

I took my prescription renewal request to the surgery this morning. Having been away and obtaining a couple of months worth of medication over in Ibiza, it's taken this long to get down to the last week's supply. The renewal procedure has changed, and the practice website doesn't reflect this. Now that the usual entrance to the surgery is closed, the designated collection box for prescription requests is not in use. You have to post them through the letter box in the door which is in use instead. I just hope it doesn't get blown into an obscure corner when the door is opened to admit patients and visitors!

As I was about to go out for my afternoon walk, I had a call from Mother Frances asking if I could do a funeral in two weeks time, as two came in on the same day. While I was out in the park, starting to pick blackberries I had a phone call from Clare to say that Fran and Mark were coming around for tea in the garden, so I had to curtail my foraging effort and head for home.

It's a happy coincidence that they have got together, as a couple. We've known them both separately for different reasons for almost twenty years. Fran, due to her involvement in the Steiner School, Mark as a musician friend of Rachel's, who put concerts on at St John's when I was Vicar there.

Fran brought with her an icon of St David which she's painting, to show us. Clare sponsored it as a gift to the school, an inspirational reminder of its Welsh roots. She's working on it thoughtfully and slowly in the tradition of Byzantine iconography, while depicting Dewi Sant primarily as a simple Celtic monk. 

Although he was a Bishop, showing him in the status loaded episcopal vestments of the Byzantine or  the Roman churches would not be wholly appropriate. Celtic Bishops were more grassroots people spending their lives travelling around evangelising and supporting church communities, rather than presiding from an urban centre of power. Looking forward to seeing the finished product!

We watched the 'War on Plastic' follow-up programme on telly later in the evening. It was an interesting exposure of misrepresentation of information about the recycleability of sandwich boxes and the plastic mesh used in many brands of teabag. Also it highlighted concern about the increased use of plastic packaging for vegetables in supermarket home deliveries during lockdown, and the growing environmental menace from discarded face masks, something I've noticed both in streets and parks. How will the vicious cycle of over consumption of plastic material ever be broken?