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!
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