A licensing at Evensong

Fr Rhys celebrated the Parish Churches we attended at St Catherine's this morning. I had to rush off to the wound clinic in St David's Hospital straight after, as I had an earlier than usual appointment. It meant I was back home for lunch punctually, and had an afternoon to finish watching the last three episodes of 'Killer by the Lake',

How it all worked out was interesting, as suspicions fell on several people close to the investigators in turn, before an unlikely perpetrator emerged, who was even closer, with a hidden tragic family history and a deadly schizoid condition. It was only thanks to several seemingly unrelated incidents impacting upon the case that the killer was discovered at all, despite the best appliance of crime science to the case. Luck and coincidence played their part, not an uncommon story, I imagine, in real life too. Alongside this, the portrayal, with some fine acting, of a lead detective's mother with early onset Alzheimer's, effectively woven into the storyline - more then, than just a crime thriller. 

I watched on my tablet, stretched out in bed, by far the most comfortable thing to do at the moment. My gluteous maximus muscles have lost bulk with my overall weight loss, so I'm less well padded than I used to be. It means the Seton's sutures dig into me more than earlier so sitting still without getting up for any length of time is hard.

We walked to St John's for Evensong at six. After the sermon, Fr Rhys was licensed to the Parish  by Archdeacon Peggy as a NSM Associate Priest - that's new catch-all designation jargon for whoever isn't Team Rector or Incumbent. It's meant to cover Curates, Team Vicars, and non-stipendiary clergy in a ministry area team, but not those with Permission to Officiate, whether as retirees or salaried priests not on the diocesan payroll, (as I was when a University Chaplain, and when I was a USPG Area Secretary), offering voluntary ministry in Parishes on request without a formal role. It's all a bit odd to the uninitiated.

There were three dozen in the congregation, including Fr Peter Sedgwick, whom I haven't seen for more than a year. We used to meet out in the Fields when he and Jan were walking their dog, but the dog died unexpectedly last year and hasn't yet been replaced so their habitual pattern is in suspense. Peter is active working in a local food bank, with refugees and with homeless people, when he's not taking part in high level ARCIC consultations. And, he's recently published a magisterial tome on a subject close to his own heart, Anglican moral and pastoral theology. It's been well received I'm glad to say. It was very good to catch up with him again.
  

Grand Slam weekend fiesta

Clare went for a swim and gym session yesterday morning and we met for lunch afterwards in John Lewis' restaurant, before I walked back to Riverside Clinic for my daily dressing appointment, at a  later time than usual. Already the influx of green shirted rugby fans was noticeable, standing outside pubs, drinking and chatting in the damp afternoon air, enjoying the weekend around tomorrow's six nations final match. A quarter of a million people are expected to descend on Cardiff to watch inside the Principality Stadium, or outside.

This morning I walked to Lidl's in Leckwith to get some bargain packs of cashew nuts, which mixed with olive oil and a dash of salt can be blended into a deliciously tasty butter substitute. Walking there and back along 150 metres of footpath alongside the park next to the store, I collected around fifty discarded cans, bottles and paper cups, disfiguring the greensward. The sight of this offends me, and still the best way to cope with the resentment this arouses in me is to do some 'wombling' as the family call it. 

Returning up Llandaff Road, I saw small groups of mainly men dressed in red shirts walking towards town, chatting about the prospects for the day. They walk in, rather than driving and attempting to park close in to the centre. Bus services become rather erratic on days of high congestion like this one, and stop altogether two hours before the match, so those with stadium tickets won't risk being held up - and they need time for a few beers as well.

The earlier wind brought first drizzle, then a steady downpour of rain, so going out and walking into town to savour the atmosphere lost all its appeal.  I watched the second half of the match on TV and was astonished at how superbly the Welsh team played to claim its fourteenth victory in a row, not to mention its fourth Grand Slam victory in the new millennium. Cardiff will be a happy rowdy place tonight. I dread to think about the amount of litter that will be generated. For the most part it will have been cleared away by lunchtime tomorrow. If only the same effort and focus were applied to tidying all the city's parks and public spaces! 

Because I walk the same streets almost daily, on my way to the clinic or the shops, I am aware that dropped or parked bottles, cans, cups and cartons lie in the same place for days, even weeks at a time. I don't think that the thinly distributed array of local litter bins get emptied more than once a week either. By the time the weekend arrives, park bins may already on their way to being full, and by Sunday night are overflowing. Our filthy streets are a testimony to consumer carelessness and to cutbacks in municipal spending.

The evening, the last couple of episodes of Icelandic crimmie 'Trapped' were shown on BBC Four. An impressive and touching drama, full of interesting characters with tragic family secrets, topical social issues, and a backdrop of amazing scenery. People I know have spoken highly of the holiday visits to Iceland. I don't think I could enjoy the clouds and rain however. Cross country skiing in midwinter would be great, but for the short days and long nights, so it won't feature on my tourism wish list any time soon. At the moment all I can hope for is to be fit enough and able to travel again.

Life saving friendship

I celebrated the Eucharist at St Catherine's yesterday morning with eight others, then went to the wound clinic, did some shopping and the walked to the Natural Health clinic for an acupuncture treatment. I was quite tired when I got there but the treatment rejuvenated me. Even so, I laid low for the rest of the day.

Emma asked me to stand in for her at the St John's midweek Eucharist this morning, which I was happy to do. Apparently she'd just received an invitation from a Muslim women's group to visit one of our city's mosques. That's the sort of invitation which wouldn't be extended to a male priest, and it shows what possibilities of dialogue are opened up, simply by having ordained women clergy.

After a clinic visit, lunch and a siesta, we drove to Newport to visit Martin. It's the first time we've seen him since his life-changing colostomy operation three weeks ago. We're amazed at how well he is looking and how active he is able to be, within limits, like me. He had prepared tea for us, with cream cakes and cucumber sandwiches to celebrate. He spoke inspiringly of the positive experience and of people he'd met through this truly life-threatening crisis. 

His GP recognised before the hospital specialists who'd been scanning and testing him, exactly what had gone wrong. She rushed him to hospital, with only hours to spare before toxins overwhelmed his vital organs, saving his life. She'd been a youngster in the Parish of Pontyclun when he was Vicar there. He followed the development of her vocation and career, and kept in touch. Eventually he signed up as one of her patients in a local medical practice. Who could have foreseen this?  

When we returned home there wasn't anything I wanted to watch on TV, so I went up to bed to watch a French crimmie from More Four's 'Walter Presents' on my tablet. This one is called 'Murder on the Lake'. Setting is Lake Annecy in Haute Savoie which we know well from camping holidays when the children were young over thirty years ago. And it's great to get glimpses of familiar much loved landscapes - and to hear French spoken with hints of a familiar regional accent as well. It's yet another 'hunt the serial killer' show, in which a social media dating app plays a key part in the killer's modus operandum. The plot twist is that some of the cops involved in the hunt are using dating apps to cheat on their spouses while at work. I wonder if the truth is as strange as the fiction here?

Waiting on Parliament and on God

I've been following events in Parliament closely this past few days and will do for the rest of this critical week in European politics. I follow just as closely what media reports and the commentariat have to say about it. It's hard to know which group is the more worrying of the two. 

For ages it's seemed to me that MPs are dimly aware or ill informed on all the consequences of decisions they are required to take, often less interested in the common good than in preserving self-interests. Journalists and interviewers often seem poorly briefed, not quite up to date, and utterly devoted to over-simplifying every issue, and enforcing binary options to which an instant response is required from their unfortunate victim. 

I find myself reluctant to trust the majority of public voices, whether elected or employed in the media, to speak the whole truth in the service of all citizens. It's argued that all this disagreement, division and harsh debate about the way forward for the country is what democracy is about. What I see is elite groups struggling for control, not for a unifying consensus, setting a bad example that exacerbates existing social division in the population. It's recipe for civil strife if many on both sides of the brexit debate feel their voices are unheard and don't get what they thought they wanted from the outcome of this agonising process. 

Britain is no longer a society in which Christian moral values and spiritual influence set the tone or give a lead in nurturing a more just and equal society. We have become to a much greater extent a multi-faith and plural culture, tolerant in some respects, but overly lax and permissive in others. The total proportion of people of any faith who practice their religion and apply its teaching is perhaps a quarter of the population. To have a secular environment in which all believers enjoy equal respect and treatment can be beneficial to the common good, but at what price? To have secularism as a dominant ideology fostering individualism, striving to discredit and exclude religious thought and influence from the public debate, poses a grave danger. 

It's all too easy for cultured despisers of religion to dismiss the faith perspective on the grounds of differences in beliefs and the awful conflicts these have generated, and ignore elements of different religious paths on which believers do unite in pursuit of truth justice, equality and goodness. The idea of Christendom is a lost cause, but the spiritual reality of God's kingdom, and human beings as God's children transcends culture and religion. I believe it can and should be worked towards by all people of faith, thinking and working together for the common good, regardless of differences. And to make any fresh impact on the wider world, every household of faith has to set its own house in order, purge itself of deceit, corruption and exploitation. Believers in God have lost so much of their credibility, it's easier said than done to restore it, maybe beyond us humans, but not beyond God. So, it's a matter of watching and waiting on God for the kingdom to break through - yet again.

Travelling in

A good night's sleep helped me regain my equilibrium after a couple of unexpectedly tiring days. I did two lots of weekly shopping and visited the wound clinic for an early appointment before lunch, but then didn't do much else for the rest of the day, apart from read news stories and ponder.

We heard this morning about Auntie Daphne's funeral arrangements. There's to be a service, a week next Friday at the Parish Church of St Gregory in Dawlish, which she used to attend before she moved into sheltered accommodation some ten years ago. It's a long slow train journey to get there for midday. It would mean leaving at an impossible time, since our domestic routine revolves around ablutions and wound management. So, we'll travel the previous afternoon and stay overnight in a hotel near the station. Sister in law Ann will travel over from Felixstowe and join us there. Exeter is a city we've visited just once, when we were young, so an overnight stop will give us an opportunity for a little sightseeing too.

Lent is under way, and I find myself unable to settle on doing anything special or different this year. While it's true that illness or infirmity dispense a person from the usual Lenten exercises, I'm not so incapacitated by my condition as to feel this applies to me. For months I've had to exercise restraint over the amount I eat, and drinking wine isn't something I can do much of, or all that often. I've had to learn to be more mindful of real bodily needs, rather than consuming for pleasure. That's more how Lenten self-denial is meant to be - awareness and control of appetites in order to be free from being distracted or dominated by them. It's not a practice of virtue, but a necessity at the moment. 

In the past I've made an effort to write a daily biblical or liturgical reflection in Lent, but creative inspiration eludes me at the moment, and I find I have no inclination to pursue a course of study or read a book. Lenten things I hear on the radio or read on-line, often familiar and worthy in their way, seem formulaic, clichéd. I feel in need of spiritual stimulus, but hunting for it 'out there' seems like 'vanity, a chasing after wind'. 

My life is focussed around patiently waiting, being careful to stay as healthy as I can and not do anything to sabotage physical healing or make life difficult for Clare and everyone else concerned for me. Perhaps the challenge before me is to travel inward, empty handed, not knowing what's there to learn or discover. 

'Iremos de noche, para encontrar la fuente, solo la sed nos alumbra'

    

Sunday missed

A leisurely family supper last night was followed by an equally leisurely family breakfast. I think we all enjoyed it so much that we're contemplating arranging another hotel weekend together for a repeat gathering. When Rachel and Jasmine next come over maybe? 

We parted company just after eleven, Owain returning with Kath, Anto and Rhiannon to Bristol and showing them his new flat, and us heading back to Cardiff. High winds disrupted traffic using the main Severn crossing, the old bridge was closed. This meant lane closures and traffic queuing on the M69 to get on to the M4 westbound,adding twenty minutes to our journey. Although I had been very comfortable driving on Friday afternoon, I couldn't get comfortable at all during this journey, so we stopped at Magor services so that Clare could drive, as my distress was impairing my concentration. It's impossible to why this set back occurred, except that I was still feeling tired and stiff from sitting around so much yesterday, bouts of exercise notwithstanding.

The demise of advertised eight o'clock Communion services at churches within reach of the hotel and the long family breakfast meant having to miss the Sunday Eucharist altogether. I wasn't happy about this but simply had to accept it, and be sure to add the Liturgy of the Word for Lent One into my saying of the Daily Office. I was disappointed not to be able to worship as a visitor in a church I haven't been to before. This doesn't happen very often, and it's an opportunity to learn something new about congregational life in changing times.

After a quick lunch when we arrived home, Clare was collected and taken to Bristol for her monthly study session. I went to bed and watched last night's double episode of Icelandic crimmie 'Trapped' on my Chromebook. There wasn't much either of us fancied watching in the evening, apart from an episode of 'Allo! Allo!', which always makes us laugh out loud, tiredness notwithstanding. Then early bed, desperate for more sleep. 

A really big birthday

We dined in at the hotel last night and had an excellent meal. Beforehand, Clare found the shower thermostat wasn't working, so she complained. While we were eating a plumber arrived and fixed the problem. We were treated to a complimentary bottle of Chilean Merlot on the house! Our day started with a generous breakfast, and a walk on the beach in the wind, before getting ready for the birthday lunch. Owain arrived, then Kath, Anto and Rhiannon separately, and all checked into their rooms just as Pauline and her offspring arrived and started greeting their guests. Altogether we were three tables of ten - one for her immediate family, another for friends, and yet another for cousins. Dianne and Ian, Guy and Pam, Clare and I, plus our brood.

It was a delightful celebration, a time for reminiscence and catch-up, Pauline gave a little speech and cut the cake, and all partook of an excellent buffet lunch. By tea-time, everyone had departed, so we that remained for a night together at the hotel went out for another walk in the wind up the beach and back. Then, Clare, Kath and Owain went for a swim in the hotel pool, and Anto spent some time in the sauna, I just went to bed to recuperate. It wasn't so much the physical exercise that seemed to drain me, but several hours of socialising, reaching out to people, to an extent that I have been unable to for many months. I'm fine with familiar routine social interaction at church, but none last quite as long as this party, I guess. We all had supper together at eight, and by ten I headed off for bed, leaving the others chatting and drinking.

It was a lovely day, and it was great to see my eldest sister in such good form, sharp and engaging well with others at four score years and ten, despite inevitable physical frailty. Since Geoff died she has been contemplating moving to sheltered accommodation to be near daughter Nicky. Now she has decided to take the house off the market, and stay put until she cannot manage on her own and needs a nursing home. She has helpful friendly neighbours, a taxi service when needed, and Nicky orders for her all she needs on-line and has it delivered. It's the place she's lived longest in her life, and her family, although dispersed, keep in touch. Who needs all that disruption and re-adjustment at her age?

Return to Weston

After a wound clinic visit and early lunch we set off for Weston-super-Mare. I first came here as a toddler for the annual Miners' Fortnight family holiday, over seventy years ago. The beach, with its golden sand ending at low tide in estuarine mud, is everlasting the same, though the promenade has changed in appearance over the past forty years since we used to visit with our small children during our time in St Paul's Bristol.

I drove all the way and was comfortable doing so for the hour and a quarter journey. As I haven't driven for six weeks, not being able to sit for any length of time, yesterday morning I had a trial run, driving Clare to school, a mere twenty minutes behind the wheel. It did my morale good. It's evidence of improvement in my condition, albeit far to slowly for impatient old me.

We checked in to the Beachwood Hotel on the road south out of town, opposite the local golf course, just behind the beach. It's a small family run place catering for two dozen guests, with a swimming pool, the place where my brother in law Geoff's funeral reception party was held four and a half years ago.

Once we'd unpacked, we walked the mile in a strong wind along the beach promenade into the town centre, to hunt for a sleeveless pullover for me, as I forgot to pack the one I needed. Marks and Spencers delivered just what we were looking for. The sales lady told us the store is to close down in a few months time, having served the town's residents and visitors for more than a century. How sad!

Weston's town centre retail area seems to have suffered from incoherent development in post war years. It's a collection of Victorian era buildings and others of little architectural merit dating from the sixties to the turn of the century. In 2006, as part of an effort to enhance the townscape, an unusual artwork was installed, entitled 'Silica'. At ground level, its base houses a bus shelter on one side and a kiosk on the other, above that, a slim conical spire rises a hundred feet into the air, which is meant to light up at night. It's located at a place called Big Lamp Corner, and certainly provides a point for discussion, if only because of its sheer incongruity in this setting.

In July 2008, Weston's Grand Pier pavilion burned down, and a replacement one was commissioned and built, opening just over two years later. This is a more satisfactory effort to enhance the sea front environment, the result of an architectural competition, a stylish contemporary take on a traditional  sea-side pavilion theme. The beach promenade has undergone some structural improvements as well lately, with a succession of conventional looking wrought iron framed shelters, but also a series of substantial open air seating benches sculpted out of dark polished marble.

This time of year there are few holiday visitors. The winter weather makes it windswept and bleak, but there's something I like about the emptiness of the place, the sense of waiting, getting ready for the influx of visitors from Easter onwards. It reminded me of time spent in Spanish costa resorts out of season  My photos are here.

Musical delight

We heard today that Clare's Godmother, Auntie Daphne died this morning, a few days after her 88th birthday. She suffered a severely disabling stroke several years ago and was bed-ridden in a nursing home outside Exeter. Having been an independent active person all her life, infirmity was crippling to her spirit, and she hated needing so much help from others. I hope and pray that she was able to welcome death as a merciful release from her misery. 

My afternoon visit to the wound clinic saw me returning home laden with extra nursing supplies to take us through our planned weekend stay in Weston for sister Pauline's 90th birthday. The nurses have been ever so helpful in helping us prepare for this. 

For much of the day it was windy and it rained intermittently, but by early evening the weather calmed down, so we were able to walk to the Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama for a concert by the Welsh Sinfonia chamber orchestra. This is an Cardiff based ensemble of professional musicians, which tours around Wales to perform, and works with school music projects. The concert  programme included first symphonies by C.P.E. Bach and Beethoven, a rather odd 20th century piece by Charles Ives, plus Haydn's 'Cello concerto with Sheku Kanneh-Mason as the soloist. 

Three years ago he was Young Musician of the Year and is now in his second year studying at the Royal Academy of Music, in between gigs on the international concert circuit. I was perversely pleased the concert notes made no mention of him performing at last year's Royal Wedding, which made him somewhat a celebrity outside the music world. His status as a musician lies in continued recognition of his musicianship, all over the world. His playing was beautiful, exquisite in emotional maturity and sensitivity, as well as technical brilliance. What a wonderful musical treat!

  

And so Lent begins

It's later than usual this year, almost as late as it can get in fact. I celebrated the Penitential Mass of the day at St Catherine's with ten others, including the Reverend Emma, whose day off it is, but as she said to me on Sunday, how right it would be to be on the receiving end, in the pew. Instead of an off the cuff address, I prepared a brief homily last night, to stop me rambling on as long as I can do. I didn't want to be out of the house for too long in case the surgeon rang, which she didn't. After lunch, however, walking back home from the wound clinic, my mobile rang and I had a good ten minute chat with her.

She has my next round of surgery booked at week eight as stated at the outset, but given that the hospital outpatient appointment booking system is so overloaded currently, she is arranging to see me at UHW in a ward consulting room, on a day when she will be doing her round of patients! It's a nice piece of lateral thinking. And the date? March 19th, St Joseph the Worker's Day. It's only a few days later than when I was expecting to be seen. 

An assessment of healing progress will apparently determine whether one Seaton's suture or both are removed. If one, then there'll be another procedure later on. She couldn't be specific about the repair she'd done without having her case notes to hand. It's 'complex', is all anyone has been prepared to say who has examined me since mid December, and getting it right is vital to prevent recurrence. It's a matter of waiting, but now, waiting with some sense of direction, thankfully.

I am temperamentally prone to impatience, and have had to learn how to wait, train myself to some extent, to take a long view and work towards goes with care and attention, not always successfully. Being a patient for most of Lent ahead is imposed on me. A suitable penance? I wonder how I can make this fruitful for soul as well as body?

  

  

Breakthrough

Before my wound clinic visit this morning I had a GP appointment to review my top up medication. It gave me an opportunity to bring the doctor up to date on progress since the operation, and on the lack of progress in getting the follow up appointments in place. All in all, from her viewpoint, some progress has been made. My blood pressure is 'normal' for the first time in over a year, as my system is less stressed by the presence of an untreated abscess.

I've been thinking about the difference I felt coming around after the operation. It reminded me of when I had a tooth with an abscess as a child, feeling rotten miserable with toothache. The offending tooth was extracted, and although a gaping hole was left by the tooth bleeding and painful, that debilitating all encompassing sensation was gone. Dostoyevski spoke of this in his work 'Notes from the Underground' 155 years ago, it's something I recall reading in Philosophy classes in University 55 years ago. I lived with that for far too long, and maybe should have made a fuss about not getting treated earlier.

Martina, who is co-translating the book about baby play and digital media with Clare came to lunch today. I cooked a vegetarian sugo to go with pasta, and Clare cooked pancakes for dessert, served with a mix of fruits of the forest. A nice tribute to Shrove Tuesday. And we had pancakes again fro supper to finish off the unused mixture.

Later in the afternoon I went out for a walk, but it started to rain so I went into town on the bus and mooched around the shops for an hour or two. When I got back, I Clare told me that the surgeon, Ms Cornish had phoned, and will call again tomorrow. It was such a relief to know that a conversation about the next steps is now going to happen.

Family celebration in view

It's my sister Pauline's 90th birthday today. I rang her and sang Happy Birthday to her and we talked for half an hour. She's as lively and engaging as ever, coping with the ailments of ageing but young in spirit still. Friday coming, Clare and I travel Weston super Mare and stay a couple of nights. On Saturday, there's a family birthday lunch for her. Owain, Kath, Anto and Rhiannon are coming to join us, and stay overnight Saturday. It will be my first outing from Cardiff in six weeks, and a bit of a logistic challenge, in terms of wound care. I told the nurses about this, and we'll be kitted out with three days worth of medical supplies to see us through.

While I was out at the clinic this morning, a phone call came through for me from someone higher up in the UHW admin team, wanting to talk to me about my appointment concerns, so clearly the phone call to the Local Health Board hotline on Friday last has produced a result. I was asked to brief the admin supervisor about my situation in haste, as she was about to go into a surgeon's team meeting. I explained what I needed to know, and asked if I could be put n touch with the surgeon who would be accompanying me for subsequent outpatient appointments and procedures. Would it be Mrs Cornish again, or would it be the team leader who delegated the first job to her? No answer was forthcoming but she promised to ask.

Well, that's one small step forward, but until I know where I stand, I shall continue to wake up at four in the morning and lie awake wondering and worrying for an hour - and pay for it later in the day when tiredness creeps in again. It's been like that for the past several days.
  

Welcome home Rhys

This morning at St Catherine's Fr Rhys Jenkins presided and baptised at the Parish Eucharist. It's his first Sunday as NSM Associate Priest in the Benefice, a welcome addition to the team, as he lives in the community and is already well known and loved. Although this was a Sunday off for Emma, she took part in the celebration, welcoming Rhys at the start and administering Communion with him.

After an early lunch, I went to the wound clinic in St David's. Only on my way back did I realise that I had no appointment booked for tomorrow. I called the nursing helpline, but they were unable to fix one for me, as this team doesn't have access to the clinic's booking diary. I found St David's hospital reception number on-line, however, and was able to contact the clinic and obtain a date. It seems to me that the NHS suffers greatly from not having an computer data management system handling all the information of every department in an integrated way. It's not an impossible thing to achieve. 

The problem is, that the use of computer systems in hospital medicine evolved at different rates in different departments over decades. And each is a law unto itself. Many existing systems are out of date. Also they are not as secure as they need to be against malicious hackers. In other countries it seems, integrated information systems have been the norm for decades. Attempts to do the same in the UK have so far been expensive failures. To what extent, I wonder, does this reflect lack of shared vision about the future of the service offered? A bit like the failure of the brexit process to declare unequivocally what kind of future the UK wants, as opposed to what brexiteers are clear they don't want in future. 'Without a vision people perish' as the saying goes, as we spiral into chaos.

We didn't go out together in the afternoon. It rained. After a siesta, Clare had a school meeting from four until six with her eurythmy colleague Jacquie, so Russell came over with her, to drink coffee and chat for the duration. It was good to welcome him here for a change. 

After supper I watched the last episode of ITV's Inspector Morse prequel 'Endeavour', and very good it was too, telling a story of police corruption in the seventies. Before and after I watched on iPlayer the two episodes of the Icelandic crimmie 'Trapped', missed last night. It continues to develop interestingly, touching on current themes of multinational industry colonialism, environmental pollution, homophobia and political corruption, xenophobia and nationalist extremism. So many themes, tightly played out in a constricted social setting with awesome landscapes. Very much a modern Icelandic saga.

Repeat performance

I still haven't had a response from the hospital's surgical administrators to the query I raised ten days ago about the strange date for my interim outpatient appointment, ten weeks instead of four weeks after my operation. Neither has our GP surgery practice manager. So, yesterday, on her advice I rang the number of an office of the Cardiff and Vale Community Health Council, which offers support to patients in sorting out appointment concerns.

I spoke to a sympathetic lady called Donna who made notes on the story I told her and promised to get in touch with those responsible, and find out what is meant to be happening. 

There was no further contact from her at the end of the afternoon - typical Friday afternoon I guess, and there was nothing in the mail and no phone call today. We'll see what Monday brings. The same office helps people to make official complaints to the Local Health Board, and if this isn't sorted out in the coming week, in time for the outpatient appointment I was promised, this is the path I will take. It seems that however excellent the medical, surgical or nursing service that's offered, the managing of it all is chaotic, inefficient and error prone. And to think of the money spent on paying the elite few to oversee and support the front line teams!

Anyway, this evening, we went to the Millennium Centre for the WNO's performance of the third of Donizetti's Tudor cycle of operas 'Roberto Devereux'. It was the same production was we last saw on 6th October 2013, with a different cast of excellent singers, but still with Carlo Rizzi conducting. He's a great favourite with audience. It was only as the opera progressed that I realised that I had seen it before. The music and its performance were wonderful, but there are no memorable popular arias to establish it in the long term memory. I appreciate the sheer virtuosity in 'bel canto' operas, but this doesn't imprint itself upon me emotionally. The drab production was forgettable too. Looking back at what I wrote after last seeing this, my opinion hasn't changed.

The best part about the evening was bumping into Fr Hywel Davies in the foyer beforehand. He had been given four free tickets for the performance, and had invited Diana, Pete and Val, all of who we know. We had time for a snack supper together and a natter before the performance. Diana offered us a lift home by text, but as our phones were off, we didn't pick up the message until we were on the bus heading to the city centre. If fact, we were lucky to get a bus which left just minutes after we arrived at the stop, saving us a half hour wait. LIkewise in Westgate Street, where we took a 17 to Canton Cross and walked. We were back home, forty minutes after the performance. I wonder how long it took to retrieve cars and drive the same distance? I must remember to ask.

Dydd Gwyl Dewi

This evening, Clare and I walked to Llandaff Cathedral for the Solemn Mass of St David's Day. Six lay clerks sang Byrd's three part Mass, so the although the service was mainly in English, we also had a little Greek, some Latin and some Welsh! We greatly enjoyed sitting up in the choir, I had Fr Mark sitting next to me in his new Canon Precentor's choir stall. It was lovely to see him and catch up with him after the service.  

Clouds, rain and sunshine today, more like April than March, after a run of clear skies and sunshine you'd be pleased to have at the end of April. The seasonal weather patterns we are used to are not as predictable as they used to be, thanks to global warming. I am amazed that there seem to be so many people in influential positions who remain skeptical about the evidence. The brexit deadline date is now four weeks away. Already the UK economy is suffering the impact of unpredictability because the decision making is so late and so chaotic in nature. Most economic forecasts about its impact are gloomy, and yet this isn't persuading euro-skeptics to change their mind or their commitment to see this through. It a matter of beliefs and perceptions of the world we live in, regardless of facts.

G K Chesterton said "When a man stops believing in God he doesn't then believe in nothing, he believes anything." It's something I see reflected in the past decades of the ascendancy of secular post modern post-Christian thinking. Everyone thinks and does what is right in his own eyes. Personal opinion trumps unifying corporate consensus and common commitment. Alliances may be possible with others who think like us, but are quickly broken by any difference of opinion which threatens personal ideas. Parliamentary chaos at this present time reflects what permeates society and culture. 

Chesterton's belief in God was rooted in his sense of orthodox Catholic moral order and worldview, a perspective which permits skepticism and deep criticism of alternative philosophies, ideologies and beliefs. It's tragic that the church's critical voice is being disregarded by the majority these days. So much moral authority has been lost by keeping quiet, cozying up to corrupt and evil regimes, failing to confront injustice, and ignoring the abusive behaviour of people in positions of trust and authority in church leadership as well. Doing the opposite its demanding, uncomfortable and costly, and while individuals are willing to sacrifice themselves to do the truth they find at the heart of Christian faith, sacrifice by the body of the church for the sake of the same truth - is less than evident. This weakens that moral and spiritual authority which once bound believers together into a faith community, so they have drifted away, and joined the ranks of those believing anything else except the inherited tradition of faith.

I've thought a lot recently about why church hierarchs of different denominations have attempted to avoid dealing firmly and decisively with abusers who have been entrusted with pastoral care and responsibility, apart from the difficulties entailed in ensuring just process for those accused, and protecting victims and vulnerable people, apart from sheer ignorance and incompetence in handing exceptional matters with discipline and discretion. Dealing in confidence with abusive clergy, with no accountability for what disciplinary measures were taken, if any, then sending them on to work elsewhere with their past record hidden under the Seal, seems irresponsible to say the least. What drives such a conspiracy of silence on the part of church leadership may be more basic even than damage to the reputation of the church.

In an era of substantial decline in the number of ministers to serve even a declining constituency of believers, the fear of barring abusive clergy from public ministry for being a risk to those they serve imposes an even greater burden of ministry those who remain faithful and true. The fear is that with no pastors to bind the faithful together into a community with a sense of purpose and mission, the church will collapse and die in places where it is weak and vulnerable. It's not a decision to be taken lightly. When it's being faced by leaders at the top without consulting those who will be affected by any decision made, it exposes what is wrong with the way hierarchy is exercised in the mainstream traditional churches.

Since Vatican II lay ministry has developed vigorously in many parts of the Catholic church, world-wide, and in other hierarchical churches. Evangelical and Pentecostal churches have also sprung up and flourished from predominantly lay ministry. Pastoral care and nurture becomes more of a mutual endeavour than from the top downwards. What has always been at stake since the Reformation is the right kind of relationships between church leadership and members. This changes as society itself changes. We're still adapting, still learning what this means for our era. 

Communities concealing and not dealing with personal or communal violence within their membership or leadership are frightened to tackle deep ailments in the Body. And that has fatal consequences. Are churches now ready and willing to learn and act fearlessly to make healing possible? We shall see. It's shameful that it's taken the long arm of secular law enforcement to shed light upon this matter.

If Dewi Sant was with us today, in a gathering of the faithful, would he be recognisable before he stepped out of the crowd to proclaim the world. I don't think that Celtic Christians were devoted to wearing status garments borrowed by ancient Western church leaders from civil society. I don't think that Celtic monks adopted wearing monastic habits either, no matter how often religious art portrays it anachronistically. I'd like to think you could work out who he was in a group, as he'd be the one who would listen more than he spoke, answered when asked, and always with a warm smile.

    

   

Ministered to and ministering

I woke up with a crick in my neck this morning, and this reminded me that I was overdue for a visit to the McTimoney chiropracter I saw several times before Christmas. I phoned Clive and was lucky enough to book an appointment at midday. He found plenty of issues to work on, as life with such an awkwardly placed wound has meant much awkward movement and use of arms to shift my weight around in an unbalanced way over the past few months. Although conscious of the awkwardness and making an effort to rebalance myself, the effect of never doing so perfectly accumulates and takes its toll. The treatment did me a power of good, making movement easier and less stiff. The crick in my neck has gone, and I'm glad of that.

I walked from Clive's treatment room down to the local shops, visited the bank and after shopping for a few items went on to the wound clinic for a dressing change, before returning for a late lunch. Twenty minutes after finishing, I was collected for the funeral at which I was to officiate in Saint Catherine's. This concluded in Thornhill crematorium, after the journey from church in surprisingly heavy traffic for a Thursday afternoon in half term without school run traffic. The funeral drivers complain about how much worse congestion is already due to suburban expansion to the north and west of the city. How it will be in five years time with thousands more houses in new estates being built, without adequate infrastructure expansion to match population density growth, is a worrying consideration.

By the time I reached home, it was gone five. I'd been invited to join a post funeral gathering at the other end of the parish, but didn't have enough energy to socialise. Thankfully I did have enough energy to discharge my duties to my own satisfaction. I know when I need to rest, and when I do so, often wonder what I really should be doing instead. I've felt for years as if I should be doing much more than I seem capable of. I don't know who this internal slave driver is, or where he comes from. It's an odd business, never really comfortable or satisfied with my own efforts.

   

The wait goes on, and on

The last few days, nothing remarkable has happened. This has been the warmest February month on record. For several days now the skies have been as blue as they would be if we were on the Costa del Sol. It's a small consolation in the midst of much uncertainty.

Wound clinic visits, daily walks and shopping have whiled away the time until my next appointment with the colorectal surgeon to assess progress made after the operation. The wound nurses are certainly pleased with the progress I've made so far. I hope the surgeon thinks the same. I'm still waiting for a response to my letter of enquiry to the surgeon about the date assigned ten weeks post-op instead of four weeks as stated on op day. I feel sure this is an error, and if it isn't, need explanation for the delay, and advice about how to cope with a half finished procedure. Being kept in the dark about exactly what was done in surgery on top of this confusion, is disturbing to Clare and myself. 

This morning, on the way to celebrate the midweek Eucharist at St Catherine's, I popped into our GP surgery to see Debbie, the practice manager and ask if she'd be willing to enquire on my behalf. It's not clear who is responsible for the follow-up, as the surgeon meant to operate on me handed the job over to another team member. Who in the hospital booking administration is responsible for what or responsible to whom? I thought Debbie had a better chance at finding out than me. She checked the surgery records and found my operation discharge sheet, which states the follow up op is to happen in eight weeks, as I was told, but nothing about the interim checkup at four weeks, although this was written my discharge leaflet by the nurse in charge.

When I got home after the service, Clare said Debbie had phoned to say that she had made contact with the booking clerk responsible, and found there was no record of booking me in for anything. She emailed copies of all the post-op documents to the clerk, who promised to take it up with the surgeon. No idea was given of when or how we might find out, however!

After lunch, another wound clinic visit, then my first post-op acupuncture treatment and a walk into town to buy some shoe insoles. I caught the bus back instead of walking, as a wave of tiredness hit me unexpectedly. Half an hour's sleep in the chair before supper was enough to restore me. Bouts of tiredness when you're not physically tired can be an after-effect of anaesthetic for some time after. I'm tired also at being preoccupied by this ailment and all the hassles surrounding treatment.

  

Church visitor

At St Catherine's Parish Eucharist this morning, Archdeacon Peggy Jackson was the celebrant. The last time we saw her was at the Millennium Centre during the interval at 'La Forza del Destino' I was saddened that the half term weekend drastically reduced numbers of parents and children in church. We were nearer three dozen instead of five dozen souls, as is usual. I made a point of saying this to her at the end. We'd like her to have a good impression of the Parish, now that recruitment for an new Team Rector is about to start in earnest.

In the afternoon, a visit to the St David's hospital wound clinic, and another walk, this time not so energetic, just in Thompson's Park, and more photos. The place is alight with the colours of crocuses, snowdrops and assorted daffodil varieties, even more so than a few days ago. Such a delight, and in this milder spell of weather, lots of families and dog walkers enjoying not having to go far to have a good time.

Already tonight, I finished the last episode of 'Greyzone', a well crafted dramatic account of the complex issues moral and practical involved in anti-terror espionage, as well as some thoughtful allusions to the ethical debate about the boundary between military and civilian use of technology. More of this time come I suspect.

  

Another match day in town

Friday was routine and uneventful, a clinic visit, a walk, more whiling away hours streaming 'Walter Presents' crimmies. I've had a couple of photos from Martin, from his hospital bed, before and after the removal of life support tubes, smiling in both, but a bigger grin in the latter. Out of bed walking a little, and if progress is sustained, home after the weekend.

Saturday afternoon Clare was working away at German translation, so I walked out with my Sony Alpha 68 to Blackweir, for more early spring photos through Bute Park and home again. Wales were playing England in the Principality Stadium, and as I was making my way back from Blackweir at a quarter to five, I could her the sound of massed voices a mile away singing the two national anthems before the game.

I don't normally watch sport, but on this occasion, after arriving home and having a cup of tea, I did switch on the telly, and watched three quarters of what turned out to be a marvellous exciting game, which Wales won. Cardiff city centre will be a very happy place, full of inebriated souls tonight!

BBC Four showed the second double episode of 'Trapped' at nine and I watched with interest, as the slow moving plot line unfolds with ominous twists and turns. Again, as was first said about the Welsh crimmie 'Y Gwyllt' the landscape (in this case Icelandic) is as much a star as the actors.

One week on

One week after the operation the wound is healing well, to the satisfaction of the nurses treating me each day. Apart from passing bouts of tiredness, which may be fall-out from having had a general anaesthetic apparently, I can carry on a low level of normal activity. Sitting for any length of time is not possible, not so much because of pain, but the energy draining sense of pressure on my perineum and the core of my nervous system. Instinctively the body reacts to avoid this, so if I can sit upright, it's never for long before I have to move, which can be tiring in its own right.

I have been trying to think of what sort of difference the surgery has made, despite the difficulties of coping at the moment, and it's this. If you have a rotten tooth with an abscess in it, waiting to see a dentist is a painful nightmare. After tooth extraction comes a huge sense of relief, despite residual pain from the cavity which still has to heal. For me, that kind of relief was what I've been feeling ever since the operation. Healing and the restoration of normality on this occasion will take several months however, not a couple of weeks.

Martin phoned this morning, to say that he was suffering terrible abdominal pain and has diagnostic scans and tests today at the Royal Gwent hospital near where he lives. Kidney stone? Gall Bladder? Or something else? I hope they find out quickly.

This afternoon, I walked to a home the other side of Victoria Park for a bereavement visit to prepare for the funeral of an 89 year old, next week, who had been a widow for nearly half her life. Her two daughters welcomed me and talked about their mother, another of that second generation of young women who went to work at the end of the war after leaving school, stopped work to have children and restarted of necessity as mid-life widow, rising up the ranks of the Civil Service, with only local secondary schooling behind her. Bright, no doubt, but apparently well schooled without benefit of privileged status. A modest unassuming life with admirable achievement running through it. I get to tell a little of her story, when we lay her to rest. Such a privilege, yet again.

In my down times afternoon and evening, I have started watching a new euro-crime Channel 4 series called 'Greyzone'. This dramatic story of hostages, terrorism, drone technology, and a collaborative Danish / Swedish police effort to foil a plot is set in both Copenhagen and Stockholm. It tells of the life of a single mother who is an executive computer programmer, working in the former city while living in the latter. A long haul job with ten 45 minute episodes, but promising so far.

  

Appointment chaos

Late last night I had a text message from Martin's phone, saying 'In recovery, doing well'. It was good news to take with me to prayer this morning. What a delight to be well enough to celebrate the midweek Eucharist at St Catherine's this morning, with the regular group of eight people. The husband of one member went for surgery this week, and was bumped off the day's operating list for the third time. "No available beds" was the excuse given. How can this happen? We were all hoping for a double successful op celebration.

I received a letter from the hospital appointments unit advising me of my expected next outpatient appointment to check progress on the wound healing, but not in four weeks, as told by the surgeon and put down in writing on my discharge sheet, but rather ten weeks - on my birthday, in fact!

It immediately struck me that my date of birth (used to confirm patient identity against given name and database number) had inadvertently been transposed into this letter, so I immediately wrote to the surgeon reminding her of what had been stated before and after the operation, verbally and in writing, to ask if this was a transcription error. I copied the letter to our GP surgery practice manager as well, so it's on record, in case I need them to fight my corner (again) and try to get some sense out of a system which yet again teeters on the edge of chaos.

The need to get this letter written and sent off rather preoccupied me, and I had an afternoon wound clinic appointment, which took me out for an extra hour and a half because of a delay there, so I didn't get much time with Kath and Rhiannon before they set off for home at tea time. After clinic the wound became very painful as I was walking home, due to a small change in the application of the dressing, which I had to wait to adjust until I got home. That was pretty draining, and I regretted not having an acupuncture treatment today, as clinic time clashed with the only appointment time available for this. But, I recovered, and was able to walk out to Chapter to collect our organic veggie bag order, and help Clare prepare a beautifully tasting salmon and vegetable stew for supper. I think I shall sleep well tonight.

Requiem for Mac

An early phone call from Martin this morning was a disturbing disruption to the day. He was phoning from the hospital emergency surgical unit, where he was undergoing pre-operative checks after being diagnosed with a ruptured bowel. He faces a colonostomy today with great urgency. He's endured ulcerative colitis for many years, and even if a repair to the burst could be made, developing bowel cancer would he a risk. So removal and life with a stoma bag is inevitable. We can only pray for a blessed outcome.

I went into town late this morning to attend the funeral of Canon Mac Ellis, my predecessor as Vicar of St John's City Parish Church. As I was setting out I had a phone call from my friend Martin to say that he was in the Royal Gwent Hospital awaiting an emergency operation following a nightmare couple of days of pain, until he was diagnosed with a perforated bowel. If all goes well he expects to leave hospital with a permanent colostomy bag and no lower bowel. He's seven years younger than I and he was in my prayers as we were praying for and saying goodbye to Mac. 

There were about a hundred and fifty people present, a dozen robed clergy and more, including a retired Bishop, in the congregation. It was a traditionalist Solemn High Mass of Requiem, with a sung setting of the Ordinary of the Mass which had been written by Fr Mac himself. It was destined to be a long service, so I didn't robe, but rather stood at the back instead for the hour and a quarter duration, in order to pray pain free. 

It was a beautiful well ordered and serious occasion such as he would have loved, and certainly have arranged for others in his time. I didn't know him, but he was a respected role model to a good number of old school Anglican High Church clergy, and this was reflected in the congregation which gathered to mourn his passing. I admit this made me wonder how I'd be remembered when my time came. I'm not strict traditionalist, but think of myself as liberal, ecumenical and missionary catholic in conviction. How this is perceived and understood by others I dread to think. Vague I wish-washy I rather suspect. You have to be true to your experience of life in faith, however, and not be concerned about what others think of you, especially those with passionately held views of their own.

I saw and got to speak to several colleagues and associates from the city centre whom I haven't seen for a long while, but I was constrained for time afterwards by a wound clinic appointment, and had to walk briskly back to Canton to get there punctually for two o'clock.

In the evening I watched the last episode of 'The River', which had a few more surprises revealing an unusually complex story of conflicting needs and loyalties, guilt and shame. I've noticed in a few series of crimmies I've watched in recent months an effort to expose the complex moral dilemmas in which people find themselves and are either driven to commit crimes or are crime victims. It's a kind of narrative approach to ethical debate, and interesting to reflect upon. 

Kath arrived at nine after a day's band rehearsal. Sonrisa have been working on new songs to take out on a tour of concert gigs for school audiences, for which they have funding. It's an unusual move and one which promises to be challenging and exciting, working with young audiences. I'm so proud of her innovative and creative work, and can see Rhiannon following in her footsteps with natural ease and pleasure.

Post-op - day four

Clare cooked waffles for breakfast in honour of Rhiannon's stay, one of her favourites. The two of them went to the Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama at lunchtime, to attend a play reading which is part of a drama student practical project. Clare got to hear about it as a member of the 'Connect' friends of RWCMD organisation. 

Student groups design and present several short plays for a specific little theatre venue (reproduced physically in the College), working with the real life theatre director and producer whose venue it is. At the end of the project, the plays are done in the intended location, the Gate Theatre, Notting Hill. It's a brilliant educational idea, as they can pause, analyse and reflect at each stage of the process with the help of staff and an actual theatre director, without being under the usual commercial time pressure of a real-time situation. It's a RWCMD innovation, now emulated by other performing arts places around Britain. As Rhiannon is keen on performing arts and design, we thought this would be of interest, and so she was!

A District Nurse came at the end of the morning, and agreed I was in a fit enough state to attend the wound clinic tomorrow. Later in the day she rang through with an appointment time. They may need me to attend daily for a while. I don't mind, as it allows me to structure my day to include a walk. 

After lunch and a siesta, I walked around Pontcanna Fields and visited Blackweir Bridge for the first time since the op. It was mild and the sun shone in a cloudless sky, and I felt pretty good, elated in fact, about being alive and this well, just four days into recovery. I walked two and  a half miles, and didn't feel exhausted afterwards.

Martin phoned me while I was out and told me about the sudden death of a near contemporary, John Lewis, Dean of Llandaff who retired in 2012. He had suffered from heart trouble while in office but regained health sufficiently to live out his three score years and ten. His death reminds me that I too am on borrowed time, more so, after six months of surviving in such an infection prone state. There's no telling how long we have to live. It's a matter of being grateful for what we get. Especially extra time, which is extra quality time, like today.

Post op - the Lord's Day

After a good night's sleep, early ablutions and dressing change, we were able to get to St Catherine's for the Parish Eucharist, celebrated by a priest who said that he'd been doing a PhD in Cardiff Uni's Theology department. I think he may have been on the staff at St Mike's a while back. He certainly preached us an interesting and scholarly sermon. I was so pleased to be out and about again. Every component of normality helps me on the path to healing I believe.

Clare rushed home afterwards while I chatted, to get an early lunch ready. The nurse appeared just as we finished lunch to change my dressing. Then Clare had to go and  meet Rhiannon from a train as she was coming to us in time for an afternoon performance of WNO's  'The Magic Flute'.

It was the first time for her to travel by train unaccompanied, and this entailed a train change, plus a bus trip from Bristol Parkway to Cardiff, due to the weekend closure of the Severn rail tunnel for electrification engineering work. She'll be fifteen at the end of this week, and quite confident, but used to being taken places by car and not needing to travel independently by public transport, although she now uses the train to go from Kenilworth to Coventry. 

There were no hitches and by two she was tucking into a sandwich prepared for her by grandma before they left for the Millennium Centre. A ticket was bought for me but in the end offered to a friend of Clare's because of the uncertainty about my ability to cope with long spells sitting down. It was a disappointment, but I stayed in an watched several more episodes of 'The River' on More Four Walter Presents. This is yet another drama making the most of the wild winter beauty of Northern Norway's borderland with Finland and Russia. What seems to start as a scandi-noir crimmie, evolves into a spy story which explores the legacy of the Cold War and spotlights contemporary tensions in communities along border regions of this kind. Very thought provoking.

Clare and Rhiannon returned by eight and we had supper together before turning in for the night. It's good to have a lively teenaged grand-daughter in the house again. Kath will come down to collect her on Tuesday.

Post-op day two

A slightly more disturbed night's sleep, but very little pain or discomfort throughout, apart from a strained back muscle from unusual exercise getting on and off beds, and holding positions for wound treatment. I think I've found a remedy for this however, in the form of a stool placed at the bedside that can take my weight and help me maintain unstressed posture when moving on off a mattress that gives too much at the edge. The stool was placed there accidentally when Clare needed it to take a small water container while cleaning me up. It'll stay there now as long as it's needed!

Just as I was finishing lunch we had a nurse visit, to do a dressing and bring us fresh supplies to see us through the weekend. Another Q&A session about wound care for Clare. She needs to feel sure and confident in dealing with a changed scenario. I'm a lucky man to have such a caring wife.

Today, I've been noticeably tireder and slept deeply in the afternoon. Nevertheless I did get out for a walk as planned, while Clare was out at the gym, and walked a mile or so to the shops and back. I needed to walk at a slower pace than usual, being careful to work within my energy limits. Apart from that, I spent several hours watching catch-up TV crime series - 'The River' from Norway on More Four Walter Presents, and 'Trapped' from Iceland on BBC Four. Heavy stuff, both recently made and both reflecting emerging political and social concerns in telling tragic human stories. It brings a different more real perspective to the endless stream of news and comment to which we are daily exposed.

Having completed all but one of the French Duo Lingo exercises, I decided to abandon it. One set of tests of a past subjunctive I repeatedly failed, not just because of its difficulty or its irrelevance, but because it insisted on English expressions and translations which made no practical sense to use. Just a bad set of exercise, which seem designed to humiliate. I continue daily Spanish drills however, as it's far less annoying. I know I can communicate in French, but I have yet to prove to myself that I can communicate just as well in Spanish. I look forward to more opportunities for this once I have recovered and am fit to travel again.

Post-op day one

I slept better than I expected to. The pain and discomfort from the wound is less that what I've been used to these past couple of months. Best of all, there's an absence of that indefinable sense of stress to the nervous system which was due to internal pressure on my vagus nerve. I'm no longer trapped in state of coping and hoping things won't get worse, unable to make progress simply waiting for  surgery. Although there's quite a long healing process that needs to happen from here on, I'm feeling strangely elated, better than I've felt for many many months.

A member of the District Nurse team came just before lunch. She did an assessment, changed the dressing and took my vital signs. The blood pressure reading she took was the same as mine, normal as the doctor would have it be. Clare checked with nurse about how to dress the wound, which looks quite different now. I have a 5cm incision along my perinaeum, and a couple of Seton's sutures to drain the opened cavity. Clare took a photo so I could see and understand better. It's looks strange to me. The suture ends are tied together for neatness, and are a surprising pinky red  colour, so that they stand out for anyone treating the wound to notice.

I had a message on my phone from our GP surgery cancelling an appointment made last week to visit the nurse for a blood pressure check in a month's time. Nothing to do with the nurse's findings, but a clue that the surgery already knows I've had the op, and that a different regime of medical attention will now be put into place. 

For the past couple of months the fortnightly surgery check was the GPs way of checking that my condition didn't worsen before an operation took place, and not get noticed. It's reassuring to reflect this has worked well. I have been quietly accompanied by medics and District Nurses all along this precarious journey. Bravo!

I spent a lot of time today talking to people by phone or email, updating them. We intended to go out for a short walk, if I felt up to it, but ran out of time before it rained. But never mind. So far just enjoying feeling different and resting is enough to be going on with. Praise God.

  

A cutting edge saints day to remember

The world many just think of this as St Valentine's day, but in the church calendar it's the feast of Saints Cyril and Methodius, apostles to the Slavs, brothers gifted Roman civil servants, sent by the Pope in the ninth century to evangelise on the eastern frontiers of the Roman empire. Cyril learned to speak the  language of the Slav tribes and invented what is still known as Cyrillic alphabet, based on Greek and Latin scripts to turn speech into writing. They translated scripture and liturgy into the written texts known as Old Church Slavonic. Methodius was a bishop. Cyril remains a founding hero throughout the slavic cultural world, yet both were laid to rest in Rome's San Clemente basilica, which I well remember visiting over forty years ago.

So, all in all, a memorable day for an afternoon surgery appointment as far as I'm concerned, though any days would have been just as good after a six month wait. Clare delivered me to Llandough at noon. I was taken to a ward and interrogated by nurses and the duty anaesthetist before meeting the surgeon. The charge nurse told me that she's a Sunday School teacher at Llandaff Cathedral when she home for the weekend. A nice co-incidence.

The head of the surgical team excused himself from attending to me on account of 'other duties' and much to my surprise and delight, Ms Julie Cornish introduced herself to me. She was fully briefed, having read all the notes and my two letters to the boss man, and explained what was going to be done to me. Today's procedure starts sorting out the internal damage, draining the wound tracks. There'll be a further procedure in two months time to complete the repair work. She was honest with me in stating that there's only a 50% change of a fully successful outcome, and that further measures using other techniques might be required if not.

I was taken down to the operating theatre around three and returned to the ward three quarters of an hour later, having calmly drifted off into unconsciousness, and waking up later as if coming around from an afternoon nap. No nausea or dizziness, vital signs stable, no pain, nothing to worry about. Before Clare collected me at five, I was treated to a cup of black coffee and a turkey sandwich, and walked out feeling steady on my feet and reasonably comfortable.

Clare cooked us huge tuna steaks for supper, eaten with relish, as my last proper meal had been a seven o'clock breakfast. The new wounds leaked a fair amount of blood, as the dressing applied was loose and needed an absorbent back up pad. All a bit messy, but never mind, I found I didn't need any pain killer to see me through the evening. In as much as I can sense a change in my condition at this stage, I'd say that it's easier to sit without stressing my perinaeum. There's a peculiar kind of pain associated with pressure on the core of the nervous system. This is a great relief. I think I will sleep well tonight.

So much for me thinking this would be a straightforward repair job! It's been a positive beginning however, and fortunately my body is still good at healing itself and I have the benefit of acupuncture to help maintain the equilibrium of my immune system and energy levels. I don't need to believe in it or know how it works, I have the evidence now. Four courses of antibiotics needed in the last four months of 2018. Seven acupuncture treatments this year, and no new threat of infection.

Thank God for the surgical team, the nurses and my acupuncturist, all doing what they do best to get me back to health.

Waiting days

Wednesday already. Time has just slipped by since Sunday, waiting for surgery tomorrow afternoon. Clare took John to the bus on Monday morning. We then discovered that he'd left a pair of shoes in the hall. They'll have to be posted to him. I took the bus into town in the afternoon. On the grass verge besides the Llandaff Fields bus stop, I noticed the first of this year's smaller native daffodils flowering in the sunshine, and took a few photos. Early, I thought, but then remembered my first Instagram photo, posted when I started using the app. But how long ago was that, I wondered? I checked, and found it was 9th January 2016, a month earlier than this year's blooms.

Tuesday morning, I walked to the wound clinic by a long route to get some exercise before having my last dressing done there before the operation. I noticed whole carpets of daffodils blooming in Thompson's Park, which came out without my seeing them over the weekend. 

The nursing team was running late as they'd had an assessment that morning. I was seen by Kate, one of the supervising nurses who visited and treated me at home on Holy Innocents' Day. She said she remembered I was in a bad way then. I hope she was impressed by the change in me since. Needless to say, I praised the regular nurse team to high heaven for reversing the frightening deterioration I experienced in the run-up to Christmas. I'd like to think that now there'll be less of a mess for the surgeon to sort out.

After lunch I went out again to Thompson's Park and took photos - daffodils, snowdrops and several colours of crocus carpeting under the trees and just daffodils on the steep banks. Wonderful, although the photos never quite do the spectacle true justice.

This morning, I celebrated the Eucharist at St Catherine's and went for an acupuncture treatment after lunch. I really needed this. After a couple of quietish days, the wound was painful and draining me of energy. At the end of the session I felt restored, as good as I can be, to face the vital repair job. Sister in Law Ann reckons that the operation will leave me pretty drained and needing a week or so of rest before I begin to feel the benefit. 

I admit to feeling apprehensive at the prospect of being any more incapacitated than I have been over the past six months, conscious of how much longer it takes to recover from any injury at my age, but I just have to trust the process. I would help if I'd been able to have an advance conversation with the operating surgeon, and a chance to ask questions about a treatment plan. Although I've twice written to the head of the surgical team, I've had no reply, and specific information supplied by the hospital is negligible. It would be easier to get information from my mechanic about repairing the car than it is to get properly informed about  how a surgical procedure is going to work and affect me and my carers. Does this, a teaching hospital, presume patients will do their own research on-line? Or what? 

There are some answers I'd like to pursue once this is all over. 

   

A Parish and Cathedral day

I was pleased to have the opportunity to celebrate and preach at the St Catherine's Parish Eucharist this morning, and pleased that it gave John an opportunity to experience and appreciate worshipping with our regular congregation.

After an early lunch, Clare went to her study group in Bristol, leaving John and I to walk to Llandaff Cathedral for Choral Evensong, with an installation ceremony making Fr Mark the new Precentor. It brought the Cathedral Chapter together with the Bishop, Dean and Diocesan Registrar, and the nave was full with parishioners, family and friends, not to mention dozens of clergy colleagues. Bishop June preached very well, and the service ended with a sung Te Deum. In her address she explained how revision and modernisation of the Cathedral's governance and management structures would work. Having a couple of new residentiary Canons, one of whom Fr Mark, is part of the plan.

I took my Lumix LX5 camera with me and was able to get a handful of photos of the key moments of the installation. Adequate, but not remarkable event pictures. You'll find them here.

John was delighted to be part of this occasion. I don't think he gets to Wakefield, his home Cathedral all that often. Clare and I received an invitation to a reception in the Prebendal House afterwards but the place was so crowded and busy, that it made either socialising or eating and drinking difficult, so we didn't stay for long and walked home for tea and scones as darkness fell.

I felt much more tired than I expected to, after a late evening out and an active day. Another bout of wound discomfort, drove me to bed early after supper, where I watched an episode of 'Endeavour' on my Chromebook, lying down rather than sitting up. No matter how much effort I make to stay fit and well, the energy drain is simply inescapable sometimes and I have to give in, like it or not.

  

A royal night out

Another visit to the GP surgery yesterday morning for a blood pressure check. As usual, the readings there were high, in contrast to readings taken at home which average out at the desired 'normal'. I make a point of taking my home readings chart with me, to add to their record. It's all a bit strange really, but at least I'm no showing signs of contracting an infection. The wound varies from day to day and so does its impact on general well being, whatever the logging of vital signs reveals. If this operation does happen next Thursday, it will be interesting to see what impact this has on vital signs, once recovery is under way.

Clare's cousin John arrived by coach from Halifax mid-afternoon, to spend the weekend with us. We haven't seen him since we went up to Northowram for his wife Dorothy's memorial service a year ago, so there was a lot for us to catch up on for the rest of the day. 

The weather wasn't kind enough to encourage a walk this morning, but we drove down to the Bay after lunch to show John around before going to the premiere of a new production of Verdi's opera 'Un Ballo in Maschera' at the Millennium Centre. Prince Charles attended. He's the WNO's royal patron; also the Mayor and other civic dignitaries, with no ceremony, but with unusually punctual start. We arrived to discreet security checks, previously notified by letter, and were required to take our seats fifteen minutes curtain up. The performance didn't finish until ten thirty, and sitting for the best part of three hours apart from the interval was a uncomfortable and tiring, but it was rewarding nevertheless..

I think it's the first time we've seen this opera. As ever with WNO, the solo and choral singing was superb and choreography was executed with style and a certain humour. The music is unfamiliar, in the sense of having few well known popular arias, but it's beautifully rich. The production, however, was quirky and confusing. The opening scene, wasn't set in the heroic nobleman's audience throne room, but around a coffin, from which he then emerges to preside. This coffin reappears in the final scene after his murder is staged, but he's not shown lying dead in it, but walking around and singing on-stage. A few moments earlier we saw his stabbing, or did someone else take the hit for him? This was unexplained. Or was it meant to be his masked alter ego killed off? Or was it his spectre singing about the legacy of regret and pardon in the wake of the avenged amorous encounter with his best friend's wife? I thought this was muddled, especially as the programme's plot synopsis referred to his dying words uttered on the ballroom floor. Altogether too clever, I'm afraid, adding nothing to the evocation of tragedy.

Some other plots of Verdi operas, like Rigoletto and Forza del Destino, as well as this one, feature an element of doom brought on by a curse or a moment of clairvoyance. Does this reflect the dark side of the nineteenth century society he was part of? Or was Verdi looking back to how things used to be in generations before him? There's a thread of inescapable tragedy which isn't exactly cheerful or inspiring. Despite the beauty of his operatic music, they deliver an overdose of melancholy, which I'd rather do without at the moment.

Legacy filing kit

I had a last minute request from Emma to stand in for her and celebrate the Eucharist at St John's this morning, which I was happy to do, as I'd intended going anyway. Afterwards I had a wound dressing appointment, and arrived home to find Clare was already back from school and had cooked lunch. She had another school meeting later in the afternoon, so I went out and walked for another hour until she returned for supper.

Her work on the baby book revision is gathering pace, now that she's working with the translator of the original English version from the German. Certain sections of the original text don't need to be revised as the case studies are still relevant. Clare needed to recover text files of these to include in the body of the revision, but our book archive only contained .pdf files and original Publisher 2000 .pub files created in 2012. What could be done to recover editable texts with minimum expenditure of effort? She worried.

Fortunately, I have retained the 2009 Acer Aspire Windows Vista desktop mini-tower machine, with Office 2000 and the version of Publisher on it which I used to create the original publishable texts. But would it still work? Well, it did, even though its CMOS battery is dead, and an assortment of its software is well out of date and flashes up security warnings. Even so, the original .pub file loaded with no complaint and generated a .RTF document which could then be run in Libre Office and used to produce a docx file for modern convenience. Sure there will be minor formatting issues, but much of the required pieces of text can be transferred by cut and paste. I was well pleased with this, as it took so little time. So glad I didn't consign this device to the scrapheap. I could do with a decent old Windows 7 laptop to install legacy software on, to retain such easy access to an assortment of other legacy files accumulated since the start of the new millennium and before. There'll be one out there somewhere for a song, no doubt.

A different kind of listening

I celebrated the Eucharist at St Catherine's this morning with eight others. Ann and Paul were back in church after a highly enjoyable outing to Milan via Geneva and Montreux. They brought me back a bar of Swiss chocolate as thank you for informing them about the best way they could make use of their few days in the Suisse Romande!

I was glad to have an acupuncture appointment after lunch, after a couple of unpleasant and energy draining days. It certainly did me good, as I walked around Bute park and Pontcanna Fields for two hours before returning home. Clare and I had tickets for a guitar recital at the Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama in the evening. We missed the bus we were certain would get us to the town centre in good time, so we decided to walk there instead, as we did once before. It took us thirty five minutes - so I reckon I must have walked a good seven miles today, due to the acupuncture boost.

The recitalist was a young Frenchman, Gabriel Blanco. Our seats were several rows from the stage and we could hear every single note perfectly, thanks to the remarkable acoustic design of the Dora Stoutzker Hall. He played music from several 19th and 20th century composers, several of whom I'd never heard of - French, Italian, Argentinian. He devoted the first part of the second half to Bach's Chaconne in D minor, written originally for the violin, but transcribed for piano and guitar several times over the past 250 years.

I'm pretty sure I heard Andres Segovia play it in Bristol's Colston Hall in my teens. It was probably the longest solo piece of music I'd ever listened to at that time. I got to know it very well indeed as a student in Bristol subsequently, as my dear late friend Mike had a record of the violin version, which he played often. Hearing it after several decades took me right back to winter evenings in Churchill Hall, listening over a cup of tea, or while trying to write up and learn lecture notes. I remember the structure of the music far better than I remember the information I was trying to process at the time.

Gabriel Blanco's guitar technique was remarkable, but not just for the fluency and dexterity of his playing. The dynamic range of the sounds he produced, his use of silence, and above all the softness of his tone. The guitar, being a plucked instrument, produces a range of percussive sounds which can produce marvellous rhythms, and the act of plucking can add a sharp edge to the notes produced. A clear soft edged plucking sound brings a gentle lyricism to melody. I find that very special. On top of his notable repertoire of guitar music to engage with, this concert was a different kind of listening experience for me, having been a guitar player of sorts for over fifty years. Such a treat!

Coping with ups and downs

We celebrated Candlemass a day late at St Catherine's yesterday morning, with the blessing of candles. I walked straight to St David's hospital for a wound dressing change afterwards, then a made a quick trip to the shops before returning home for lunch.

After a siesta, we walked out on Llandaff Fields together before Clare turned back to get ready for a visit to Capel Salem for an evening service in Welsh with our friend Diana. I continued walking around Pontcanna Fields for another hour, enjoying the sunset birdsong, and still evening air, milder than the last few days.

After three fairly quiet days of wound comfort, I had a distressful set-back today, just when I needed it least, having to officiate at a big funeral in St John's, mid-morning, and had to cope with pain and discomfort from the start. It came in a seemingly random way. Clare thought it was nervousness on my part but that kind of physical distress coming unexpectedly triggers the familiar shock reaction, when there's impact on the vagus nerve. It's happened far less over the past six weeks, but it's still very disruptive. It made methodical preparation to leave for church rather difficult, but I was outside the house waiting to be picked up, only half an hour early - I'd entered a leaving time in my diary as if I was walking to St John's, not being collected. By the time chauffeur Paul arrived, my pulse rate was back to normal and the sense of panic was receding.

After that, everything proceeded in order, as planned. The church was full, and I had enough energy to guide people through the service in the best way possible, despite ongoing wound discomfort and pain. The funeral concluded at the Vale Crematorium. It's eighteen months since I was there last to attend Auntie Ivy's humanist funeral, and almost three years since I last officiated there.

Rather go on the busy main road to Barry, Paul took an old country road beyond Caerau to reach the crematorium, and on the return trip used a different one via Dinas Powys, rather than queue in traffic. It's no faster, as country lanes make for slow driving but it's much more pleasant. Paul used to work as a recovery truck driver covering South East Wales, so he knows the region's roads in detail, and has many stories to tell about situations he encountered in the course of work. He is one of Pidgeon's long standing employees and quite a character. Like the rest of them, he's utterly reliable.

In the afternoon, I went to the bank, then across to the river, and came back along the Taff Trail, as the sun was setting, walking for over an hour, needing to exercise despite the wound not yet calming down. I spent the evening half watching a crimmie on TV, while relentlessly doing language drills on DuoLingo to distract me from the pain and discomfort.

I can still say honestly that I'm having more good days than bad ones at the moment. I just hope the balance stays like this until the operation.

Dozy days

Clare went off to the University School of Optometry yesterday morning for another session where her eye condition will be examined by students under supervision. I had enough energy to get outdoors in the cold to take advantage of a bright day with my Alpha 68 camera, for a walk around Thompson's Park, across Llandaff Fields, and the down to the river Taff. It was a delightful hour and a half's trek in the snow - there was just enough covering the grass to walk in comfortably, and feel it crunch underfoot. I got back in time to cook a meal, but had a snack lunch, as Clare wasn't back yet, so we didn't eat what I'd cooked until the evening. My photos are here.

Although today was cold and bright the snow didn't last long. Clare went early to the gym and I had a long lie-in. We talked about going out somewhere all day but couldn't summon the enthusiasm to do so. My wound condition has improved in the past few days, with less inflammation and discomfort most of the time. I still need to sleep an extra couple of hours a day, sometimes with a siesta as well as a lie-in, and hope this contributes to an eventual full recovery.

In the evening, Clare continued translating updated sections of the 'babies' book she's working on, while I watched a missed double episode of 'Silent Witness' on iPlayer, and read a few pages of the Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel Kath sent me at bed-time. I get the story outline, but Latin American literary Spanish style makes fuller comprehension hard work. Making use of Google Translate and a modest dictionary isn't really adequate, but persistence reveals the colour and style of the narrative, slowly. It isn't long before I drop off to sleep, however!