Twelfth night lockdown

A cold clear bright day. Clare was out for her daily walk  this morning while I stayed in bed, listening to the news and dozing, as I do habitually before getting up for breakfast. 

Today's news centres on the impact of school closures on children and families under new restrictions announced yesterday. Less prominent in the headlines are changes being implemented as a result of brexit. Lorry delays get publicised, but less so expats not allowed to return to their homes abroad because they haven't got documents updating their status as non-EU citizens. 

Some mail order companies in the EU, and other importers are stopping trade with the UK because they're obliged to register for UK VAT - time and money consuming procedures leading to the conclusion it's not worth bothering to trade with Britain. Announcements on line to this effect have attracted nasty comments from sleepwalking brexiteers, waking up to the reality of what they've been shouting for and blaming all others but themselves. We starting to pay the price paid for the fantasy of complete sovereign autonomy, and it well get worse as more unforeseen consequences emerge. As ever, poorer people will suffer most.

This morning I prepared the order of service for Thursday's funeral and accepted to do another one in two weeks time. Elderly covid patient deaths. Canton ward still has the second highest number of infections. A high proportion of elderly people in the population, several care homes, but also an area with a significant number of BAME households, and a densely populated area. So it's only to be expected, I guess.

When I went out for my walk around the Fields, neighbourhood pavements were strewn with discarded Christmas trees awaiting collection by the Council, a reminder that already it's Twelfth night. Clare stripped our little tree this morning, ready to go back into the garden, as it has live roots. I felt sad not to have a last burn of the candle stubs this evening before dismantling, but never mind. How quickly the festive season has slipped behind the cloud of covid angst. 

Nevertheless started by visiting the local greengrocer to see if he'd yet taken his delivery of this year's organic Seville oranges. Last time I called before Christmas, he though the consignment had been held up at the Channel crossing. I had to queue in the cold on the pavement for five minutes to enter but endurance was rewarded by the sight of a large box of naranjas sevillanas, by the counter. I bought three kilos worth for just under six quid, took them home, and left them for Clare, who was still having a siesta. When I got back the exquisite aroma of bitter oranges cooking greeted me and transported me to Andalusia despite lockdown. A wonderful Epiphany gift.

On the tree lined avenue through the park, I spotted the first daffodil shoots with buds about to burst and the first snowdrops fully formed and ready to open. That's five days earlier than when I noticed the earliest new year winter flowerings I'd ever seen five years ago, and posted them on Instagram, not long after I opened my account.

This evening, I caught up with another episode of the latest German crimmie in the oddly English titled in the Channel Four Walter Presents 'Nordic Murders', when it's set on the North German Baltic coast. The German heading for the series mentions the Nordsee Usedom archipelago as the story line setting. Not so difficult for foreigners, unless you're not so keen to advertise your location to movie buffs! Seven hours away by ferry is the town of Ystad, the setting for the Wallander stories, is now much visited by movie tourists. There's a price to be paid for becoming a real-life film-set, and it's not paid by the producers but by the locals. The well acted series continues to retain interest, containing a strong element of family and community relationships, sensitively portrayed, reaching back over decades. I have another episode in reserve, for the next uninteresting evening of telly viewing.

Solidarity revealed

It's getting noticeably hotter by day this week, not only here, but in Britain. Clare has been making the most of her time with Ann in Pembrokeshire, and fine weather, to visit a different beach every day and post photos of them, on Instagram and Viber. She's in her element. I'm not that comfortable sunning myself on sand, though I love to walk along the promenade and sea shore, day or night. 

Monday was a day with no appointment, just clothes to wash and a visit to local food shops, notably an eco-tienda, the other side of the Bull Ring plaza, to purchase a jar of Tahini using my best Spanish with complete success. But, most of the day I lay low in the apartment avoiding the intense heat, venturing out to the Old Town in the late afternoon as it was cooling down, to get some exercise. Having done a lot of walking over the weekend, my legs were quite tired. I'm walking at least 3-5km a day, but I'd like to build up to 5-7km a day every day, to get back to the fitness level I had last autumn in Mojácar.

Tuesday was also a day with no appointments, but a day of preparation for Owain's visit, and a day to draft a sermon for next Sunday's first visit to the Salinas congregation to celebrate the Eucharist. I found myself drawn to the Genesis lesson about Abraham and Ishmael and its relation to Islam.

More information is emerging today about the attack on worshippers at a Finsbury Park Mosque in London, by an assailant from Pentwyn, Cardiff, who seems to be a loner filled with hatred for Muslims. The impact of this act of terrorism, like the London Bridge incident last month, has been a defiant expression of solidarity by people of all faiths and none at every level, both the leaders and the led. 

'Live and let live' has been a default expression of tolerance in British urban society for generations, despite politics, despite local difficulties and compatibility tensions between communities with different lifestyles. It's not always comfortable, but people get used to it, make it work, as much by passive acceptance as through active community relations. There are more ways for people from different backgrounds to get used to each other than we realise. But, when there's an external threat to the natural balancing act going on in every kind of living community, there's a most remarkable reaction from within. 

People who've been muddling along start taking notice, and stop taking peace and stability for granted. Crisis pushes them out of passive acceptance of each other into a defensive affirmation of a diverse common life together. A sense of human solidarity becomes more conscious. It breaks down barriers of race, language and culture in public. What may have occurred when near neighbours had something to celebrate or grieve about, is revealed by harsh circumstances to be an experience shared by the larger community, which just wants freedom to continue muddling along, putting up with each other and living with differences.

Memories are awakened of my time as Team Rector of St Paul's Area Parish, Bristol at the time of the 1980 riots. That was a place where many poor people of different races and cultures muddled along together. Rioting broke out as a result of a bungled operation by poorly briefed police officers unaquainted with the area, without consulting police working there day by day. It was an expression of utter frustration by local young black people with far reaching consequences, and it attracted global attention for a while. 

There were unaddressed social problems as well, that's for sure, and a great need for British public bodies to re-examine their attitudes toward those who were of a non-British culture, in order to find out what all had in common, and what differences there were which called for respect. There were many top level enquiries, and a few changes, though never enough to make a major difference. Even then, as the crisis passed, all who lived in an area subject to intense scrutiny soon wanted just to be left alone to get on with a struggle to survive which no media or political intrusion could ever make a real difference to. 

Young rioters effectively said: 'Stop messing with us' to police with no idea how to administer law and order worthy of respect, as local Bobbies could. Hit a community with an islamophobic attack, or an islamist attack and we can label them politically any way we desire, but when the people of a place bond together in mutual respect to support each other, they may simply be saying: 'Let us be. Let us deal with this as best we can.' Whoever suffers, whoever is the victim, the community feels it's an assault on them and their effort to live together. It's almost like a revelation, this discovery that, as St Paul tells us "We are members of one another."

   

Epiphany halfway

I celebrated and preached at St German's again this morning. The Nativity scene had been dismantled and the figures set aside in the St Agnes chapel prior to being stored away. They were all lined up and looked somewhat folorn, like people queuing in the rain for a bus that never comes.

After Mass, there was an infant baptism to perform, before having a brief chat with Hamid about language learning smartphone apps, and then heading home for a late lunch. Enquiries about finding him liturgical service books in Urdu are not going well at the moment. An Urdu translation of the Roman Missal has been made by a Roman Catholic Bishop, post Vatican II. Obtaining one will be the challenge.

The afternoon was cold and wet, with snow in the Brecon Beacons. Nothing to tempt us to go out for a walk. Responses to the email notification we sent out giving the date of our Golden Wedding anniversary celebration have started to arrive, and quite separately, I received an email from Darren in Singapore.

We met when we were both working in Geneva, and have kept in touch over the years since then. mainly by exchanging Christmas newsletters. His letters are always interesting to read, as he packs a lot more into his life than just being a busy University law lecturer. He admits to following this blog too, and said his generation of Twitter and Instagram users is less inclined to write regular blog posts at length. I imagine some must save up all their words for writing novels. There seem to be quite a steady stream newly published authors today.

I haven't yet publicised my photo presence on Instagram, but over this weekend have spent some time browsing my collection of images and uploading ones that catch my eye. It's most enjoyable if there's nothing else I need or want to do, and there's nothing entertaining on telly.
 

Car decision

I took the car in for repair this morning, and walked back most of the way, having shopped at Lidl's on Tyndall Street en passant. I took the bus from Westgate Street to Canton Cross, to bank a cheque in my local branch, then popped in to Constaninou's next door for a haircut before heading home for lunch, well shorn and exercised.

I went to the CBS office in the afternoon, and met with Ashley to enquire of BT about SIM unlocking. It's not necessary on phones we issue, he was told. They come unlocked, presumably so that any of the network SIM card providors BT has take over in recent years are not a cause of un-necessary problem to users. Everything now comes under the umbrella of EE, which should include Orange, O2, T-mobile and Vodaphone. So, Clare's SIM card was inserted into the Galaxy III and worked first time, showing her caller i/d, once Ashley had, found the configuration menu to reveal rather than withhold details.

Earlier in the day I saw a notification on my Blackberry which told me that Ian has co-incidentally set up an Instagram account for the Business Crime Reduction Partnership. It'll be interesting to see how he will develop this in action. Slowly CBS and the BCRP moves towards having a decent web presence, it's long overdue as it's something I've not had opportunity to work on properly.

Then, I had a phone call from Phil at N G Motors to discuss work needing to be done on the car. The coolant leak is the least of the worries. There are brake discs, a shock absorber and a wheel bearing to be replaced, all cost more than the car is worth. But then the new tyres and exhaust last autumn also cost more than the car is worth. Despite wear and tear, it still runs well and has little structural rust, so will survive another MOT. It's reliable and it's still nice to drive. With these repairs I can put off the buying a new car for a lot longer, perhaps another year. Our car has long stopped depreciating in value. Why pour money into something newer that will start to depreciate as soon as it's been purchased?