'Spiral' returns

Nick and Sue stayed overnight in a dog-friendly AirBnB on Romilly Road, and breakfasted at the Brod Danish cafe nearby. This allowed us to have a lie-in before we met up to take Digby for another walk down to the weir and back before lunch and their return trip to Edinburgh. 

Llandaff Fields was hosting 'Cardiff Cross Challenge', a huge junior outdoor athletics meeting with races around a 3km long circuit around the park for children of different age groups from schools and athletic clubs. There were hundreds of children and parents milling around, watching, consuming refreshments or queuing in an orderly for one the dozen portaloos on site. There was an assortment of stalls, selling kit, promoting membership, selling food and drink, all of which had arrived and been set up, along with an enclosure for running events in the past twenty four hours. It's a pity the ground was still sodden by this week's rain. It'll look terrible for weeks to come. Still, it's for a good cause.

After a brisk walk, down to the river and around Pontcanna Fields, we returned, consigned Digby to his bed in the back of the car. The Nick and Sue took us to Heaney's restaurant in Romilly Crescent for lunch. The decor is distinctly minimalist, and the gourmet nouvelle cuisine menu is equally so. Even with an explanation from our waiter, we found it hard to understand the various menu options. 

The dishes I chose were tasty enough but the portions were small. I an additional plate of veg and some french fries would have satisfied my appetite, as we normally eat in the middle of the day. It's a pity we didn't go to Stefano's, a few doors up the street instead, but Sue was intrigued with the style and setting of Heaney's, and  was keen to try it, a good enough reason reason for going there.

We returned home for coffee and a slice of Clare's bara brith, then Nick and Sue too their leave of us and headed back to Scotland. In the evening BBC Four screened the first double episode of French crimmie 'Spiral', with a same lead actors playing Parisian detectives, judge d'instruction, and a bunch of dodgy lawyers. The series has been running for fourteen years, two years less than the original US top rated NCIS. I think 'Spiral' has killed off fewer key characters over the years too. Season seven opens up with the murder of a senior cop who has overseen the careers of Laure and Gilou down the years. The investigation trail uncovers a huge protection and money laundering racket. Promising!

With a much grander budget and global demand NCIS has screened seventeen series with 381 episodes, only a handful of them double episodes. There have been fewer story-line threads linking certain episodes. The eighth series of 'Spiral' is currently screening on French networks only, and there have been seventy six episodes altogether, but each series is bound together by a narrative thread which is much tighter and more complex. Subtitling for non Francophone audiences leads to a much longer cycle between releases, but it's always worth the wait. Beautifully filmed with superb acting and strong plots, relevant, never fanciful. Saturday evening excitement and interest as autumn turns to winter is guaranteed!
  

Another opera premiere night

Having driven down from Scotland with Digby their dog (not big and scruffy haired, but slim, short haired, an athletic hunting dog), with an overnight stop in North Wales, Clare's cousin Nick and his wife Sue arrived after lunch, for a visit to the opera with us this evening. We took Digby out for a five mile walk around Bute Park to exhaust him, so he'd settle for an evening out confined to the back of their BMW estate car.

Then we ate an early supper before driving to the Millennium centre. The opera was Janacek's 'Cunning Little Vixen', one that none of us had seen before, and once again it was the premiere of this particular production. It's based on a Moravian folk tale, I think, in the tradition of Aesop's fables, about the cycle of life, love and death, conflict between animals and man. I don't know if it was written with a young audience in mind, but it's relatively short and simple to follow.

The audience for a matinee dress rehearsal was arranged with parties of school aged children in mind, a brilliant idea, reminding me of my first visit to a WNO performance of 'The Barber of Seville' in the New Theatre, when I was eleven. The cast includes children as well as adults, singing and dancing in animal roles. It was superbly done with a cleverly designed bucolic set and a libretto translated from the Czech into idiomatic modern English, funny enough to have the audience laughing out loud on several occasions. It was a delightful evening, which all of us were seeing for the first time, and much enjoyed. Happily, Digby was asleep when we drove to the Millennium Centre, and asleep when we came out and drove home.

Recollections of a camera addict

I celebrated the Eucharist at St Catherine's yesterday morning. Paul and Ann were back again after a sailing holiday in the Ionian sea. They showed us some lovely photos of blue sky and ocean afterwards at coffee, a cheerful antidote to a another day's unending rain showers. 

I had a phone call after lunch from Pidgeons about a another funeral at St John's on the Tuesday morning when we leave for the Gower. Last week, I agreed to cover a different funeral at St John's the same day, but then it was re-scheduled for the following day, so I had to pull out. The one I have accepted to do is earlier, apparently the only time slot available for cremation following that day, or else the family has to wait for another week. This time is actually better, as we can have lunch before we travel in good time to take possession of our holiday bungalow.

With the arrival of autumn the number of calls on clergy and the churches for funeral services tends to increase. With Emma approaching maternity leave, in and out of hospital at the moment, and our new team Rector not yet installed I'm happy to help as needed until we go away. It'll be rather tough on Frances to start work in a completely new environment, and be faced with this kind of demand on her own as soon as she arrives. Thankfully Emma's still around on the end of a phone to support and advise her, even if reception in UHW is sometimes flaky.

Another glum day today, low cloud, bursts of rain, but I walked to St John's to celebrate the Eucharist without getting wet. I was missing taking photos, and hand't done so since since Sunday, so when I walked into town in the afternoon, I took my Panasonic DMC-LX5 camera with me, set to take black and white photos, to see what kind of results I could get in the day's lighting conditions. Although it came out nine years ago, it's still a capable camera that takes sharp pictures. I was lucky to buy this one in 2014 for a quarter of its original list price. I wasn't disappointed with the results (see here).

On reflection, I realised this was the first time in 45 years that I last took black and white photos. Clare had a Zeiss Icon film camera, and it stayed with us until we were in St Agnes Parish, when it was stolen from where it was hanging on the back of a door in the Vicarage by someone we invited in for a cuppa, or perhaps a playmate of one of the kids. It was several years before we could afford to replace it with a Praktica SLR, and by that time colour photography was more affordable, and I never looked back.

I still have an unused Praktika and set of lenses, the second of its kind, since the first developed faults due to humidity when I was travelling around Jamaica in 1982. By that time I'd acquired an excellent small 35mm half frame Ricoh which I took as well. I was developing films in a Kingston photo-shop using my travel grant money, as I didn't need to spend it on hotels. Just as well, as I discovered a shutter fault had ruined many of my pictures. The little Ricoh came into its own in this crisis, and I was able to re-trace my steps and fill in some gaps in a photo collection, which was destined to serve as an educational resource when I returned home.

I can't tell which photos were shot with the Praktica and which with the Ricoh. Foolishly, I got rid of it when I bought an equally pocketable but more sophisticated Olympus Trip. This was the only camera I took with me to Mongolia in 1999. Then in 2001, on a return visit to Geneva from Monaco, I bought the first of ten Sony digital cameras each of them increasing in power and sophistication, with three of them currently in use.

Questionable security ethics

At last this morning, a response from the funeral director in Barnstaple about the proposed Memorial Memorial service the day before we go on holiday. It'll be a full funeral in the presence of the ashes of the deceased, after private cremation over there, and scattering them will follow in a rose-bed after the service. I was given the phone number of the next of kin, and made contact for a preliminary chat before starting to prepare the service.

Then, at midday I was collected by car to go to St John's to take a funeral. About a hundred mourners attended - not surprising for a woman of 85 with twenty great-grandchildren, twelve grandchildren, and five children of her own. I read a fond humorous tribute written by her sister, whose husband's funeral was taking place in Spain at exactly the same time. This was followed by burial in Western Cemetery. Thankfully there was a break in the showers of rain punctuating the day, and the sun shone while we stood around the grave.

I noticed as we were waiting for the hearse to arrive that the re-opened grave was back to back with that of a man called Peter Brito, who died three years ago aged 92. This was such a coincidence, as I'd first met Peter in 1967 when I was training at St Mike's, and became a night shift volunteer with Cardiff Samaritans. I believe he was one of the Deputy Directors at the time. He was a member of the serving team at St Mary's Parish Church in Bute Street, so we met there too, when I attended Mass on a solemn festival day. He was also an early Community Relations Officer in Cardiff, having come from a small island Caribbean family. He always spoke with a proper Kerdiff accent, with no trace of the Lesser Antilles I wonder if he grew up here? If so his parents may have come over after the First World War.

Tonight I watched the last episode of 'The Capture' on BBC One. It's been a little difficult to follow on times, and maybe the sense of confusion generated was intentional, as disinformation was a major thread running throughout. The story highlights the development of highly sophisticated video editing technology which forges video footage, so that the recorded activities of one person are made to show another instead. This technique is already being deployed by superpowers in efforts to blackmail individuals, or to fabricate evidence to warrant military or political action it has been alleged recently. Old nuclear arms race arguments are dusted off in the interests of security to justify being a party to such questionable activities.

What is discussed in this drama is whether such tools can or should be used to entrap terrorists, or other law enforcement actions. It's an extreme instance of cynical pragmatism based on 'the end justifies the means', and 'greater good for the greater number' thinking.  Frankly, I found it disturbing to think about.
  

Return to Oxwich in view

A lethargic start to the week, but I did get around to doing the main week's shopping before lunch. We've been deliberating about where to spend our two week break all over the weekend, having made the vital decision that it should be somewhere in the Gower, since it's only an hour and a half drive from home. It was one of our favourite places to go in times past. When I checked through my photo archive, I found that we'd been there six times - twice for a week's stay, and four day trips over the past fourteen years, all before I started spending lots of time in Spain.

It's hard to believe we haven't returned there, not even for a day trip since October seven years ago, and it's ten and a half years since we last stayed there in the Oxwich Bay Hotel. At that time the place had a passing resemblance to 'Fawlty Towers', but since then it's undergone a makeover and been transformed into an up-market place to stay with a gourmet menu - including, as Clare recounted with delight, an Argentinan Malbec on their wine list, labelled bi-lingually in Welsh and Spanish, as it comes from Patagonia.

Sadly the prices are well beyond of our budget now, but after agonising over a fortnight at a house in Newton, part of Mumbles, and a holiday bungalow in Oxwich Bay, we opted for the latter. No wi-fi and a flaky phone signal, but within earshot of the sea, and a wonderful stretch of saline marshland behind the beach, designated as a Special Site of Scientific Interest - a great place for birdwatching, if my memory serves me well. Lots of wild nature more than compensates for a slender digital diet.

It's all booked now, and we'll be getting ready to go there two weeks from now.

A face from the past on the bridge

Two services to take in Grangetown Parish this morning. I preached what I'd prepared at St Dyfrig and St Samson, but couldn't repeat this at St Paul's as it was a Family Service Sunday, with a dozen Sunday School children in the congregation for the entire service, with children reading, bringing up the offerings, leading intercessions, and one small boy assisting as a server. All was nicely organised, so all I needed to do was deliver a Ministry of the Word that engaged them. I found it impossible to prepare in detail, an didn't quite know how I could make it happen until I got to St Paul's and saw the congregation taking their places.

Neither the Old Testament nor the Epistle were easy to read, let alone make sense of, and the pair of eight year olds who read showed that, despite their good effort and confidence, standing and reading in front of the congregation. I introduced each reading with a brief explanation of what they were about. I didn't then need to repeat this in my homily after the Gospel, centering around the mustard seed and dutiful servant themes it contained. For this, I didn't need use my script, and it was easy to engage my audience. The last hymn was 'We are marching in the light of God', evidently a favourite as the number of people who started swaying with the rhythm of the music grew from verse to verse and joined in the clapping when I launched into it. 

It was a happy fun moment to end on, and people left smiling. I had both a banns certificate and a copy of baptism certificate to fill out afterwards, and was asked if I'd be willing to baptise the child of a church attending Indian family when I return next Sunday. A marvellous opportunity. 

A small boy came to the vestry door to thank me for an enjoyable service, and asked if I would come and be their new priest! I explained that I'm much too old now, and suggested that when he grew up maybe he could come and do this. Well, you never know what a small seed of an idea might lead to.

Talking of which, when I was out for my afternoon walk crossing the Taff bridge on Western Avenue, I was overtaken by a young man walking his white Scottie dog. He looked across and asked "Are you a priest?" "Yes" I said. "Were you ever at St John's church in town?" he asked. "Yes" I said. "I wonder if you'd remember me, it was all of ten years ago I came to church and talked to you a few times."

His face was faintly familiar, but then he's ten years older now. When he said his name was Stephen that jogged my memory. We had talked about basic matters of belief in God, creation and Jesus on a few occasions, there were things he wanted to know, was trying to clarify in his thinking on religion.

He then told me that he'd grown up on a rough housing estate surrounded by drugs and crime, but he decided he wanted out, something more, something better in life. I don't think I was by any means the first person to introduce him to the Gospel message, but he was still getting to grips with it. 

He said that talking to me then had helped him on his way in his journey of faith, to a new life as a member of the church. He didn't elaborate on that, but when I asked him what he was doing now, he said that he was halfway through a degree in Biology, I guess after catching up on his 'A' levels, as I believe he'd left school after GCSEs. He thanked me for those conversations which made a difference for him ten years ago. Then we shook hands and went our separate ways, the other side of the bridge.

I was astonished by this, that he should have remembered me after all this time, having played but a small part in the life of this teenager who didn't want to go off the rails. I often 'loitered with intent' in the church during the working day. The idea of advertising times when a priest was on duty available to listen to all comers didn't occur. There was a pattern of regular weekday worship, but if I wasn't out and about on the streets attempting to know people and make myself known, I'd hang out in church. It seemed in reality to be a more useful place to be recognised and approached by random visitors. That way I met many different people arriving from places far off and places near. Give the place time, and the place gives back to you in unexpected ways. 

This encounter on the bridge was such an unexpected surprise, a blessing, for which I thank God, giver of every good gift, from the bottom of my heart.

    

After a coast walk, a thoughtful movie

Clare made pancakes for breakfast again, then late morning we drove to Cold Knapp for lunch at the excellent Mr Villa's Fish and Chip Restaurant. But first after parking above the marvellous pebble beach, we walked around the headland and back. After lunch a walk along the clifftop to Porthkerry. 

The climb from the car park up to the continuation of the Coast Path is steep - 115 steps and then a further climb up to the top, as rise of about 150 feet. I was surprised at how stiff my legs became as I climbed, despite going up and down thirteen stairs at home a dozen times a day. I had to stop and rest several times, to avoid getting utterly breathless. It made me realise that the thousand odd miles of keep fit walking I've done have all been on the flat, so there are some leg muscles which have had far less exercise, and need working on. And, I need to work on exercise that will raise my heart rate too, in order to retain as the cardiovaascular condition possible. We live and learn. If we don't we die.

The weather was overcast, and a shower of light rain dampened our return journey to the car, but we covered five miles. That's the furthest Clare has walked for some time, so it did us both some good.

In the evening BBC Four treated us to a marvellous, beautifully crafted Norwegian movie called the King's Decision, all about the role of King Haakon in the run up to the Nazi occupation of Norway in April 1940, when Quisling's coup d'etat took place. 

I hadn't realised Haakon was the first Norwegian King to be elected. He saw himself as a champion of Norwegian Parliamentary democracy. Hitler wanted him to endorse the Quisling regime, but rather than do so he abdicated and went into exile in Britain, returning only when the war ended in 1945. 

Hitler rose to dictatorship by exploiting populist sentiment. The King believed firmly that only a Parliament freely and legally elected by its citizens had the right to govern his country. Showing this film when the British Parliament is under attack from populist fervour whipped up by right wing  movements and tabloid newspapers couldn't be more timely. I wouldn't be surprised if the BBC now gets castigated for its selection and scheduling of a European movie of such thoughtful quality.

Busy at the keyboard

An unusually busy day for me, writing at the computer. I'm so grateful I can now sit for much longer than I could before the last operation. To be so productive in a day feels like approaching normality again, after a miserable year, even though there's still a few months more until closure is possible.

First there were corrections and edits to make on the reference, then drafting an order of service for next Tuesday's funeral, and then a sermon for Sunday services in Grangetown. The only down-side to all this was feeling rather stiff in my upper back, neck and shoulders, being unused to spending a long time in this posture. I wasn't expecting that!

I had another request to do a funeral at Thornhill Crematorium, just before we go away. It's for a family travelling with the remains of the deceased from North Devon. The man in question lived in Canton before moving in his latter years to be closer to the rest of his family. I wonder if he specified the return home in his will?

The waters of the Taff were high again after the rain of the past few days. A heron was standing close to the entrance of the Blackweir fish ladder when I passed by on my daily walk. I got one good shot before it flew off, and would have got a better one on the wing if the HX90 hadn't taken a couple of seconds to save the first one, and the auto-focus struggled although I had the bird full in frame for once. I don't understand why it should take so long to save a shot. The SD card is far from full, and the auto-focus with zoom extended isn't as good as I expect it to be. The older HX300 auto-focus is far better. I mut go into the shop and discuss this with one of their technical people.

In the evening I watched last week's episode of 'Non Uccidere' on my tablet, while this weeks was on live, rather than watch them in the wrong order, as there is a family drama sub-plot running alongside the case of the week. Last week's episode involved school girl prostitution, not initiated by organised crime, but by two youngsters wanting more money than their parents allowed them, making use of a Tinder-like social network to find clients. Evidently, a social network without age-related safeguards. 

Unusual encounter

I celebrated the Midweek Eucharist again at St Catherine's yesterday morning. After lunch a phone call from Jacquie, the UHW Patient Care Coordinator, told me I've been booked to see Mrs Cornish the surgeon on 14th November, six weeks from now. It's a long time to wait, but it does mean that we can now book a fortnight's holiday over half term.

Rachel posted a photo on WhatsApp of her lounge pile high with boxes waiting to be unpacked. This week she has moved from a condo apartment into a house with a garden, somewhat nearer Jasmine's new school, I think. I hope it'll give them both the space they need.

I celebrated the Eucharist at St John's this morning, then went to the surgery at lunchtime for a 'flu jab. It rained heavily thereafter, which was annoying as I had  bereavement visit to make at five thirty on the other side of the Parish. I walked there, clad in my new waterproof trousers and jacket. I was given a lift back, although by that time it had stopped raining, but it meant I was back in time for the Archers and supper with Clare.

The deceased who lived in Canton her entire life, apart from a spell in the Womens' Army Corps in the early fifties, had five children. Unusually all of them still live locally. Auntie Carol was also there, sister of the deceased. I soon learned that she was the Minister of Cardiff's Spiritualist church, located in my old Parish of St John's. In contrast to her sister, she seems well travelled, due to her ministry.

Co-incidentally, her husband died yesterday in La Marina on the Costa Blanca, where they had a holiday home for some years, and where he preferred to spend his latter years than in Cardiff. It's the next settlement down the coast from las Salinas de Sta Pola, a favourite bird-watching haunt of mine.

She joked about sitting next to me as we chatted; "In the old days your lot would have preferred to burn me at the sake." Rather than say we're more tolerant nowadays, the best I could manage was "No we can't be bothered any more." I wanted to say 'Health and Safety', but couldn't get it out, as people were already laughing.

She won't be at the funeral as she needs to go to Spain straight away and deal with all the legal formalities concerning her husband and his remains, but thankfully she's able to help draft a eulogy for a grandson to read before she goes. It's one less task for me to take on.

During the day I received an e-mail asking for the reference I volunteered to give to me friend Rufus who has been shortlisted for a job in Hereford diocese. I spent the rest of the evening working on a draft to send to him for fact checking. It has to be returned by Monday.

A story re-told from a different angle

Clare and Ann went to the spa for a swim Monday morning. I did the weekly grocery shopping and prepared lunch. Then, I rang Jacquie the patient care coordinator to see if there was any news about my next surgical pre-op appointment, as it's due around half term week. We'd like to take a holiday when it's Clare's school half term, so it was worth checking in case a date clash arises. We wouldn't want to cause any further delay in this long process. So far, Jacquie said she could see nothing in the surgeons' diary, but she promised to enquire and get back to me tomorrow. It rained intermittently, but cleared enough to go for a walk before supper without getting soaked. 

Ann returned by train to Felixstowe this morning. I'm looking forward to us visiting her for the last time in the family home in Kirton before she moves into a smaller more manageable house in Felixstowe. The Parish interregnum ends with the induction of our new Team Rector Frances Wilson on October 22nd. Then Emma goes on maternity leave, so there may be more local calls on my time after that, but I am determined to take time out, and get away from Cardiff, both to East Anglia and further afield, if opportunity presents itself. But plans remain on hold. Jacquie called again to say that the surgeon's secretary is meeting Mrs Cornish to plan dates tomorrow. 

A request came in from Emma to take a funeral at St John's a week today. It's two months since I last had one, rather a long time compared to the usual demand, often threatening to overwhelm the clergy in a populous parish like Canton. Apparently there's been an unusual dip in the Summer death rate, accounting for this, and it's meant less work for some funeral company employees as well.

Ann left me a copy of John Le Carre's recent book 'A Legacy of Spies' to read. It's a reprise of the tale he told half a century ago in 'The Man who came in from the Cold', featuring some of the key players in his spy-catching masterpiece 'Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy', but all looked at from the perspective of participant Peter Guillam, now retired and in his eighties. This time the tragic events of the original book are examined in the context of secret service politics and internal bureaucracy. Fascinating and enjoyable to read.

A timely anniversary

This morning I had the challenge of getting to St Dyfrig and Samson's for a nine o'clock Mass, and then going on to a ten thirty Mass at St Paul's. Thankfully, driving I'm finding is now getting more comfortable, at least for local trips and that's a positive outcome from the op, ten days ago. I really had to think of my feet, as I'd prepared a sermon on St Michael and All Angels, but the Parish was celebrating Harvest Festival, with the readings for the Fifteenth Sunday after Trinity, so I had to ditch my text and ad lib elements of all three together.

The were twenty at St Dyfrig and St Samson, three dozen adults and twenty children at St Paul's, including a robed choir of five young women, who sang well. For the time being services are taking place in a room big enough for eighty worshippers, screened off at one end of a refurbished hall next to the church building. The screen can be opened to extend the space for a funeral congregation, and in this Parish, I I discovered standing in for the Vicar in times past, that can mean several hundred mourners attending.

The church is closed, pending a major conversion project which will see the vast nave turned into apartments with the choir and sanctuary area re-worked into a new chapel, accommodating a hundred plus, with a vestry and Parish office on two levels. Meanwhile, the congregation fits comfortably into the reserved space and this helps to generate a relaxed atmosphere for worship. The number of young couples with children in Sunday school is a tribute to the Messy Church initiative, and the hard work of those who make it happen as a first point of contact. Much the same as in St Catherine's.

Clare and Ann went to St John's City Parish Church this morning, and from there walked to the Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama for lunch. Having returned home for lunch, I took the bus into town and joined them there for a matinee performance of a new play called 'Kamil and Francis' which recounts and reflects on the meeting of St Francis of Assisi and Sultan Malik al Kamil nephew of Saladin and ruler of Cairo during the fifth Crusade, eight centuries ago this year. It's a story I remember reading about in my student years in Bristol, when we got to know Brother Christian an Anglican Franciscan who came up from Hilfield Friary to the city for dental treatment, and stayed with us. Clare's father was named Francis, so it was natural to take an interest in the spirituality and lifestyle of the Franciscan movement.

This story tells of an interfaith encounter and peacemaking initiative which St Francis made unsupported, apart from a companion Friar. Unarmed, and totally vulnerable before an adversary of Christendom. His wasn't the only effort made at dialogue between religions in the Middle Ages, but others are less well known. We hear little of the fact that imperial Muslim rulers employed learned Jewish and Christian advisors and officials, whom they knew were trustworthy, such was the confidence in their hold on power.

It's far less certain that Muslim intellectuals were similarly employed when Christian rule gained the upper hand, although Christian scholars certainly took advantage of the work done across the Muslim empire, to acquire and translate ancient Greek literature, philosophy and drama. Without that immense information harvesting project, there would have been no Renaissance or Enlightenment, no Western culture as we know it today. The violence of contemporary Islamism has obscured this fact, as its qu'ranic fundamentalist approach denies much of the value the great work Muslim scholars did in restoring Classical knowledge and critical thought to the world.

The play as a highly speculative account of that landmark meeting, the content of which nothing is known. The fact that it happened at all, between these two particular men, when it did, is remarkable and inspires imagination about the current need for dialogue between adversaries, both religious and political. It ended with a conversation between its four actors, its author D.J. Britton and an audience, which included several Egyptian Muslims as well as some active Christians, and a majority of uncommitted but curious people. It was a fascinating way to spend an afternoon indoors, even though the sun shone brightly in between showers.

Gallery of memories

As it promised to rain for much of the day, we drove out to St Fagan's museum of Welsh life, now celebrating its designation as Museum of the year. After from a walk to the Gwalia Tea Room for a snack lunch, we spent most of our time in the two exhibition galleries, interesting arranged with artifacts reflecting mainly 19th and 20th century life in Wales. They are a marvellous asset to educationalists, far more interactive and engaging for youngsters than any museum in my childhood, soon after it first opened. It was lovely to see so many things displayed belonging to my early life, reminding me of growing up in South Wales. I think Clare and Ann felt the same.

In the evening, I watched a beautiful Pedro Almodóvar movie 'Julieta' on BBC 4 iPlayer. It was in Spanish, and I was surprised to find how well I could follow it with the help of subtitles, as well as I can a French film. Years of daily language drill on DuoLingo are paying off, even though it's fifteen months since I was last in Spain.

The film tells the story of the life, loves and losses of middle aged woman, estranged from her only daughter, who disappears from her life aged 18, with the film ending as they are reunited by a similar loss in the daughter's life more than a decade later. It's a  sensitive closely observed portrayal of intimate human relationships, echoing in a contemporary way, many stories of families in 20th century Spain, broken by extreme poverty and the ideological divisions of the Civil War, without reference to them. The tragic losses here are not due to violence, but illness and accident, but the impact is similar. 

It made a refreshing change from the dominant theme of unmasking criminal conspiracy in today's diet of on-line drama.

Birthday opera treat

It rained on and off for most of the day, which was frustrating, as Clare had arranged for a carpenter to come and rebuild the frame of the door on to the lane at the end of the garden. Despite dodging the downpours, he worked diligently and did a superb job. Clare has already decided to trail a climbing plant across the lintel. When we get a dry day, I'll give the new ensemble a coat of preservative paint. The previous construction lasted ten years before rotting away. Hopefully this one will last longer.

Sister in Law Ann arrived in time for a late lunch today. Her birthday falls next week, so we invited her to come for the weekend, and a night at the opera. Before we drove to Cardiff Bay, I managed a shorter than usual walk in between showers. The river Taff was running high and fast, displacing almost of the resident waterfowl. I hear the squawk of one heron, a few minutes before I saw another perched on the limb of a dead tree overhanging the river, and got a super photo about 10 metres away.

This evening's opera was the premiere of a new version of Verdi's Rigoletto. We sat in the front row of the ground floor circle, a good seat but not quite enough leg-room, or should I say wriggle room for me, so it was an effort to remain comfortable throughout, despite my much improved condition.

The production was new, with a contemporary mise-en-scene - Washington's Capitol Hill, and the cast wore suits. One scene was placed in the imposing office of a public official (suggestions of the Presidential Oval Office. The audience sniggered as the lights went up. Point taken, since it's a tale of powerful men abusing women, corruption, vengeance and hitmen from 170 years ago. It worked well in a modern context. The layout and presentation of the scenery for several acts, though given a face lift, seemed much the same to me as in the previous production, which I've seen twice, though I can't exactly remember when. The singing from all the main characters was sublimely beautiful, fresh flawless and unflagging right to the end. I splendid birthday treat for Clare and Ann alike.
   

A time for closure

Yesterday, I celebrated the Eucharist at St Catherine's, and afterwards brought home the lovely banner made for me by the Sunday school children last weekend. Evenings this week, when there's nothing to watch on telly, I'm watching a French flic drama series on More Four called 'Detective Cain'. It's unusual in featuring a cop in wheelchair. I was immediately reminded of 'Detective Ironside', a black and white TV series about an American detective in a wheelchair after being paralysed in a shooting. That was back in 1967. There was an American remake in 2013, this time with a black wheelchair user, but I've only just learned about that. Cain works in the Marseilles. He's athletic and quick witted and much of the dialogue is funny. He takes risks, works intuitively and gets results. It's lighter and somewhat more entertaining than other French flic movies I've seen, although the themes are much the same, and just as dark, as in other contemporary crime dramas. Well, it makes a change I guess. 

Today, I celebrated the Eucharist again at St John's, and then after lunch, went into town, to the CBS office, now in the process winding up affairs before closing the business. My task was to sign off the annual financial statement for Cardiff Crime Limited, and formal notification of its winding up for Companies' House. The same procedure will follow for Cardiff Business Safe Limited, almost exactly ten years since it was established by Ashley. I'm sad it came to this conclusion, when the organisation we set up had so much potential, and was innovative in what it achieved. All that has been squandered by our inability to summon enough interest and support for it to run really well, not to mention toxic suspicion and resentment on the part of prominent entrepreneurs and local government officers of the 'not invented here' brigade. You can indeed look a gift horse in the mouth, it seems. 

For me, the past decade was a significant learning experience about the 'back of house' dimension to our shiny new city centre, and about what it does and doesn't take to run an innovative business. It was such a change from my world of work over the past half century, built as it is, around confidence in people's basic honesty, trust and willingness to serve others. Business enterprise also relies on confidence, but laced with competitiveness, ambition, greed, distrust, maintaining appearances, even deceit. Remaining uncompromisingly honest and honourable is a demanding task. I have a much deeper understanding of the world of work after this experience, than when working full time.

 

Imagination at Llandaff Cathedral

After a sunny Sunday, it rained for most of yesterday. I did the grocery shopping in the morning, cooked lunch, then kitted out in full rain gear, went into town on the bus and walked home in the afternoon. I wanted to find a book I'd heard about for Clare's birthday present, and was disappointed to learn that it has only been published in the USA. Even if ordered on Amazon, it's doubtful that it'd arrive by Saturday. I'd prefer to buy from a real bookshop in any case, Instead, I found a CD that I'm confident she'll enjoy, and a card that'll make her smile. Job done. 

It drizzled most of today as well. Not that it bothered me much, as I was absorbed by the news about the High Court unanimous decision to rule as illegal Boris Johnson's action in proroguing Parliament. This is unique and unprecedented in English history. The consequences are likely to be far reaching.

I walked up the Taff calling in at the Cathedral when it started to rain. There was an exhibition in the St David Chapel presenting course work from eight local architecture students, whose brief was to devise a project proposal with drawings, to transform the site of the Prebendal House, or the site of the ruins of the nearby mediaeval Bishop's Palace into a centre for community music education and recitals, a church hall and offices to support the Cathedral's mission through music.

It's such an imaginative thing to do, given the desire to improve the facilities used by the Cathedral choir, which are less than fit for purpose when it comes to developing new initiatives. Engaging in dialogue of this kind is a creative way to start a conversation in the Cathedral community about what will best serve the future development of its work and witness, and get everyone to take an interest. Much more lively an initiative than any paper consultation exercise!

The choir director and choristers passed through while I was looking at the exhibition, on their way to rehearse for choral evensong. I listened to them singing Wood's Magnificat in D and Burgon's Nunc Dimittis, but didn't stop for the service, as I was only a quarter a way through my walk, and didn't want to get back too soon. The latter piece of music was hauntingly familiar, as it was used as theme music for the BBC version of John le Carre's 'Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy' forty years ago. This is the first time I've heard it used in worship since then. Incredible coincidence or crafty homage to an old TV masterpiece? 

Diaconal ordination anniversary

I didn't want to preside and preach as usual today, but to perform the diaconal role as I did in my first year of public ministry. I still have the ordination stole which Clare made from some of the material used in her wedding dress, and she ironed the wrinkles out of it, ready for today.

Rhys came and presided, and Emma came too, dressed up and walked with us in procession, the sat in choir for the Eucharist. The challenge wasn't preaching, but the choreography of being a Deacon in the Liturgy, with no time to rehearse! I'm not sure if I have done this since priestly ordination. When I was new in ministry, the traditional ceremonial custom of a priest playing the part of the Deacon was falling into disfavour. New priests were generally keen to con-celebrate as the Vatican II Constitution on the Liturgy recommend. This was our idea of being progressive in those days.

Being Deacon for the day kept me on my toes throughout, and thankfully, it worked out OK. In the end, I was happy preaching what I'd prepared, although I suspect it was a bit longer than usual. After the service, I was presented with a huge decorated cake to cut and share.

The Sunday School children made a congratulatory banner for the hall wall as well. What a surprise!

There was lots of cake to take home after everyone present had a piece. I was much moved by the occasion, and the warmth of the greetings I received. I still find it hard to believe it's me. I don't feel I'm this old. There's still such a lot I feel I can do, and want to offer. I must settle for those opportunities that come to me as a gracious gift. I don't think I will ever feel that I've done enough.

We enjoyed a splendid lunch, and time together in garden sunshine after. Kath, Anto and Rhiannon  set out for Kenilworth at tea time, completing their journey home in the usual two hours. It was late when I set out for my daily walk, and nearly dark when I returned. The time from midsummer to the autumn equinox seems to slip by so quickly.

After supper I watched last night's double episode of Danish crimmie 'Darkness - those who kill' on BBC iPlayer, and then finished the final brief chapters of Pablo Poveda's novel 'El Maestro'. It's been a challenging experience reading a trilogy of contemporary novels in Spanish. A struggle on times, as the author uses a wide range of vocabulary, within the relatively simple narrative structure, calling for lots of dictionary look ups or guesswork. Easy enough to follow the story, but difficult to get all the detail, particularly in conversations which carry the inner plot complexities forward.

Although concerned with a dystopic future created by criminal minds harnessing modern technology and surveillance systems, the main character is an archetypal outsider who lives in the moment and becomes an accidental adversary to grass roots champions of democracy. Like many of those who see him as an unique legendary heroic role model and symbol of the freedom cause, his end is violent and bloody. In some ways the stories are as violent and bloody and fast paced as an old fashioned wild west tale. An intriguing set of books, but I might not have read them if I'd seen a review indicating how dark they would turn out to be. Having said that, I can they'd render nicely as a movie trilogy. I wonder if anyone is thinking of this?
   

Early birthday family weekend

Another good night, glad to be waking up to sunshine again, albeit a little later today as we edge toward the autumn equinox on Monday. We had a Saturday lie-in before breakfast, then Clare filled holes in the shed door with putty. I'll add another coat of weatherproofing paint later.

Kath, Anto and Rhiannon arrived with Owain mid-afternoon. The traffic was so bad that it doubled their usual journey time, so they arrived in time to pick him up from the station. Rhiannon presented a beautiful chocolate birthday cake she'd baked and decorated for her grandma. We're celebrating six days early, as next weekend was going to be less convenient for a family gathering. We took the cake with us to Stefanos' Restaurant in the evening for a family meal, and fed it into the restaurant's cheery birthday ritual, burning a Roman candle on top of the cake or ice cream pudding, and singing 'Happy Birthday to you', with some diners within earshot joining in.

After the meal, Owain took his leave of us, hastily taking a taxi to the station rather late, hoping to catch the last train back to Bristol. We were relieved to receive a WhatsApp message ten minutes later to say that he'd been successful. He needed time to himself, as he was in Berlin until Tuesday, then in London for a work conference on Wednesday, so he's still playing catch-up.

Today is the fiftieth anniversary of my ordination to the Diaconate. I've been working on tomorrow's sermon all week, and having printed it out, made more minor changes and printed it out again. I've decided for a change not to preach on the scriptures of the day, but on the meaning of the Diaconate as an ordained ministry. I think it's the first time I've ever done this.

Post-op day

Yesterday was the fiftieth anniversary of my ordination to the diaconate. I have taken out the slim leather bound KJV New Testament given to me by the Bishop and stole I wore for that occasion, made for me by Clare from the material used in her wedding dress, ready to use as visual aids, when I preach my anniversary sermon about the Diaconate at St Catherine's this Sunday. I've already printed out the text, but keep looking at it and editing it again in my head. Fine if you have the time to do it. 

I had a comfortable refreshing night's sleep, and was up early in the sunshine. I'm amazed at how quiet the wound has been. Two walks to the shops for groceries this morning, then my usual walk around Pontcanna Fields early afternoon, five and a half miles altogether, and not feeling tired afterwards. It indicates how energy draining the wound condition was in the months of waiting for op number three. 

As Clare was out at the spa, I spent several afternoon hours watching two episodes of 'Inspector (but now Comissar Borowski' on 'Walter Presents'. Series One was good, and Series Two is even better, revealing a man at work who is as good at intuition as he is at observation. His feisty geeky female partner is a Chief Inspector, now and has grown out of being his protege into more critical and conflictual relationship. The strengths and weaknesses of both characters are well drawn, and story lines often unusual, if not odd, occasionally verging on the bizarre, mildly humorous. a good watch. The north German way of speaking is easy to follow with the subtitles, adding to the enjoyment.

I sat at ease on the sofa watching the telly for three hours before supper, and was more comfortable in doing this and less fidgety than I've been in the past year. This is so good for the morale. I went and bought a card to write a thank you note to Mrs Cornish the surgeon. I feel the need to tell her that such a small intervention has made such a positive difference.

Op day number three

I walked to St John's for the Eucharist this morning, my rucksack packed with stuff I'd need during my afternoon stay in hospital. When I got to church, I realised that I'd forgotten to pick up my phone, left on charge in the kitchen. Emma took the service, I sat in the congregation and didn't receive the sacrament, but Emma gave me a blessing after Communion instead. Thankfully Ruth's husband John offered to run me home to collect the phone afterwards and I was soon back to chat with worshippers before Emma drove me out to Llandough.

We arrived at 11.30am, and although early, my appointment was processed quickly and I was on the day surgery ward ahead of time. After the usual three interrogations (nurse, anaesthetist and surgeon's registrar), Mrs Cornish the surgeon arrived, and briefed me about the procedure. Given the MRI data, she was prepared for a worst case scenario. I pointed out how much improvement I'd seen in the three months since the scan, it was clear she would take that into account. It was then a matter of settling down and waiting.

The ward was busy, with a half dozen or so patients having minor surgery for carpal tunnel syndrome or Depuytren's contracture. It was marvellous to hear the nurses and doctors dealing with each one with consistent kindness and clarity. Each patient was different, from an extrovert septuagenarian, uninhibitedly chatting about her Catholic churchgoing, to a taciturn lady dressed in a colourful, probably North Africa burka and several other women, all but one of retirement age. 

There were a couple of quiet men too. One of them found he couldn't get his wedding ring off, a prerequisite for the work to be done on his left hand. The traditional recourse to silken thread (such as was tried on me two years back in a clinic in Rincon de la Victoria), failed on him as it did on me. His operation was postponed to allow him to get a jeweller to remove it. The metal shears available on the ward, he was told, weren't good enough to ensure an easily repairable cut. As Mrs Cornish said to me two weeks ago, when mine was cancelled - sometimes it's just bad luck.

I was last on the surgeon's list of the day. During the long wait I read a chapter of the Poveda novel, dozed, occasionally paced up and down, feeling anxious given the uncertainty of the outcome. I don't know where the clouds of pessimism come from. I'm in good hands, well cared for, but dread another disaster, and having to cope yet again with a new open wound on top of the existing one. I realised how hard I was finding it to focus on God, or to pray. I made an effort to stay facing the experience of desolation as I waited, and telling God that's all I can manage for now. Only when I was being taken to the operating theatre did my anxieties finally calm. After so much waiting for treatment, and waiting upon the healing process, I then realised that any further wait of any kind would summon the clouds of anxiety. Am I naturally impatient? Or is this a low level stress disorder? No matter what, it is survivable, and that's all that counts.

It was ten to five when I went down to theatre and ten to six when I returned. The surgeon's registrar came in to tell me what she'd done. I still have the original seton's suture in place, but the excess tissue has been removed which will enable normal healing to take place. I get reviewed in six weeks time, then a final op will follow to remove the suture and plug the remaining abscess site hole in my anal muscle with a collagen compound. I forgot to ask if this would be a permanent feature, or one which muscle tissue would grow over. Finished in time for Christmas hopefully. As for travel, quite possibly, if the wound is now going to be more manageable, less risky to live with, as it has been for so long.

After getting dressed to leave, I stooped to put on my sandals, and was quite surprised that despite the hefty dressing pad, I was able to bend right down and reach my toes without uncomfortable pressure or tugging at the wound, sometimes painful. This was how it had been for the past four months, since the over-granulated tissue attracted attention from surgeon and nurse, and started to obstruct wound closure. It was a question of having to put up with it until it could be dealt with, and today was finally the day! I felt like cheering, and left the ward with a spring in my step, to meet Clare, who had just arrived at quarter to seven. 

It was such a delight to return home to a most welcome cooked meal, and be able to sit comfortably to eat it, without fidgeting in the face of constant discomfort. I feel like I've turned a corner, just the way I did when the District Nurses took charge of my case for the first time last Boxing Day. There was much emailing to be done and WhatsApp messages to exchange as I settled down for the evening, and time for another 'Walter Presents' crimmie before bed.

Counting down for a re-run

Lovely sunny autumn weather has stayed with us this past few days, and my sleep pattern has been less broken. Both of these factors have done wonders for my morale and energy level. Progress in healing has continued during this extra two weeks waiting for the next op, which naturally continues to dominate my thoughts, wondering if I'll be fit to travel afterwards, nearer to medical discharge.

Monday morning, the cleaners came early, the Clare went to the gym, and by ten, I was out shopping, with a call at the clinic to pick up a supply of night dressings. It's good to be awake often at first light though I doze until just before seven, then get up for breakfast. I've been a night bird all my life until this year. Now I'm beginning to enjoy early mornings, though not yet to the extent of getting out for an early walk to the river Taff to listen to the dawn chorus.

I remember when I was on locum duty Mojácar, in the autumn of both 2016 and 2017, getting up at first light and walking on the beach, visiting the nearby nature reserve five minutes away to watch families of egrets leave for a day's feeding out in the countryside, a wonderful sight. It's a pity the Bay wetland nature reserve is nearly an hour's walk from home. But then there's the murmuration of starlings early evening to watch out for down there. I've not yet seen that here, although I saw this amazing sight on several occasions, on locum duty in and around Vinaros.

Tuesday, I spent some time photographing Clare's collection of roses in a sun-bathed garden. They are still happily blooming. I used my HX300, Apha 68 and Lumix LX5 to take comparable shots, in an exploration of a digital camera problem highlighted occasionally by photographers complaining how difficult it can be to render the colour red faithfully. Red roses in sunlight don't reproduce well, losing definition, over-emphasising bright light, in a way that's hard to tone down. The photos from the most powerful of the three cameras, the DSLR, render the environment of the red rose in a superior way, but the red rendering is not as satisfactory as is desirable. With time on my hands some of my curiosity can be devoted to this issue. Is it a question of the right filter? Or white balance or ISO setting? I'll play around before googling.

This morning, I celebrated the Eucharist at St Catherine's with seven others. Emma will celebrate at St John's tomorrow, and I will just attend without communicating, to comply with the medical fasting requirements. In the afternoon I walked along the Taff, and got a few good heron photos, plus some blurry ones of a the bird taking off when disturbed by a dog playing in the river. Getting a big bird in flight or just taking off eludes me. It's one small unfulfilled goal. But then it took me several years to get any hoopoe photos at all, so patience and quickness combined are essential.

I went to bed early and watched the latest episode of 'Non Uccidere' to take my mind off tomorrow, about which I am getting nervous. The odd behaviour of this wound, exuding blood more during the hours of darkness than in the daytime continues to contribute to a broken night's sleep. Tonight I could do with a long slumber, but I doubt if I'll get it.
  

Sunny autumn Sunday

I presided and preached the Eucharist at St Catherine's this morning. Now that the Sunday school has re-started after the summer break, congregation numbers are returning to normal, with around thirty communicants, twenty children, and remarkably half a dozen young adults accompanying children who come up for a blessing. How to engage with them further and bring them to confirmation and full church membership is a key pastoral challenge for the parish. I think about this whenever I start preparing a sermon - not that this group hears me preach as they're normally in Sunday school with their offspring.

It was a lovely warm afternoon again when I went for my daily walk. For the most part, trees are still green, though with flecks or patches of golden leaves here and there, and occasionally a species that turn yellow earlier than others. The weather draws out groups of people picknicking, sometimes with games equipment for volleyball or rounders in between bouts of sandwiches and drinks. Saturdays, several cricket matches are played. 

I think the teams playing reflect local Asian language groupings. When passing the children's playground, I hear English and Welsh spoken, but also recently Spanish.  There are at least two young Spanish families in the vicinity of the park. Passing one picnic group, I heard the sound of a single acoustic guitar and a female voice singing a folk song in English. It could have been from a summer in our youth fifty five years ago. 

It's great to see our parks so well used these days. The litter bins fill to overflowing by Saturday, but not emptied until Monday, which is a pity. Most groups in the park tidy up after themselves. What we do suffer from a great deal is casual litter dropped by people passing through, as on the streets, every day, and occasionally, evidence of a small group sitting down with a supermarket pack of drinks, and leaving their litter behind on the spot - glass and plastic bottles, cans, paper and plastic cups, etc. Any day I go walking I expect to collect up to a dozen pieces and take them to the nearest bin. There are a fair number of bins in the parks fifty to a hundred metres apart, but on the streets one can walk three to five hundred metres without finding one. With the passage of time, I'm getting to know where each one is located.

Museum triumph

Days, just slip by, held together by routine daily walks, Daily Office Duo Lingo Spanish practice, a few pages of Poveda's 'El Maestro' (as much as I can manage at a time) and occasional binge watch of crimmies on iPlayer and More Four. Nights are still punctuated with wound management. It's more of a problem at night, as I fall asleep easily and deeply, only to be awakened, not by nasty pain but by nagging discomfort, which needs dealing with. If my lie-in is long enough or I take a siesta, fatigue can be avoided, and I have plenty of energy for walking.

Wednesday, I celebrated the Eucharist at St Catherine's and Thursday at St John's as usual. In order not to repeat my operation day fiasco last week, Emma will celebrate at St John's next Thursday, and as Clare is now back in school on Thursdays, Emma will take me to Llandough Hospital afterwards. I suspect I will get teased again about 'nil by mouth' !

Thursday evening we went to a concert at the Reardon Smith Lecture Theatre, adjoining the National Museum, which is currently shrouded in a protective canopy while work is done on the roof. Singer Rebecca Evans, and harpist Catrin Ffinch performed wonderfully in front of about 150 people in an event to launch the National Museum of Wales' development fund. We learned that surprisingly the National Museum's seven sites across the Principality are sustained by a charitable foundation. While it's 85% funded by the Welsh Assembly Government, the trust's 15% equals seven million pounds of the budget, simply to maintain the status quo. 

The development fund will not only aid maintenance of assets long term, but enable new educational projects. One is planned for Llanberis Slate Museum in North Wales in the near future. Two years worth of development work on St Fagan's Museum of Welsh Life has certainly paid off with the recent awarding of the UK title 'Best Museum'. And visitor numbers, especially from school children, keep on rising. It's marvellous. 

Friday afternoon I walked down to the nature reserve down the bay, and photographed some Brent Geese on a floating platform, and a couple of moorhens squatting in an old swans' nest at the edge of the water in open view. Generally they prefer to hide in the reed beds. I thought this was unusual, but I guess it means they felt safe there, about seven metres away from the viewing platform. On the way back, I met Clare in John Lewis' for a cuppa, after her gym session, and then we rode home on the bus together.

Walking out around Pontcanna Fields on Saturday, I spotted our local bird man out feeding a large wake of crows. It's the first time I've seen him in several months. The penultimate double of the latest Danish crimmie 'Darkness' was dismal indeed, over-focussed on a couple of murderous sadists, with a slight secondary relationship plot. It's neither educational nor entertaining. What does make me sit up and take notice however is the way different crime series UK and Euro seem to take it in turns to address current social issues, with greater or less effectiveness. 

Islamist extremist plots have turned up in at least five series I've watched in the past few months. Variations on domestic violence, money and drugs laundering, and psycho-terrorism serial killer themes are also widely distributed. British series showcased gory pathology and cold case investigations for the past twenty years. Occasionally now, others in the Euro zone are making crimmies with authentic historical flashbacks in the storyline. Quite entertaining in its way. 

I wonder how brexit is going to feature in future explorations of human wickedness and transgression? Meanwhile we wait to see how the Law Lords will rule on the transgressions of this crazy fanatical right wing prime minister and his government, causing offence wherever he goes, promising everything, threatening to deliver nothing and blame the EC for his own failures.

Rush to judgement

How annoying! When I got up this morning, I didn't switch my phone on until after breakfast, and so  missed the calendar alert to take the car over to N G Motors in Splott early for today's MOT text. This left me with not quite enough turn-around time to go to St Catherine's to celebrate the Eucharist. Fortunately, Clare was free and able to do this instead of me. I could just as easily have forgotten to look at a paper diary and have found Google's Calendar app an invaluable replacement in retirement now I'm no longer steered through the working week and year mostly by a set pattern of events. There's a fair amount of routine in my life even so, due to interregnum duties. Just enough to balance the freedom I also value.

Eighteen years today since the destruction of the New York Word Trade Centre towers, an event that changed the modern world irreversibly, and not for the better. It was a violent revelation of the failure of dialogue between modernity and traditional culture, festering wherever people felt marginalised and powerless, and emerging in pathological form in islamist extremism. The Gospel at the Eucharist was that of Jesus a the deaf mute man, a story which for me is chiefly about a miracle of communication which is revealed by his extraordinary ability to look at people and understand what's needed to get through to them, reaching into their isolation and setting them free. He looks, listens, then acts and speaks. He looks without prejudice, without stereotyping the other person, and this is what transforms the man's life.

I arrived at church from listening to a Radio 4 feature about Amanda Knox, accused of the murder of Meredith Kercher in Perugia twelve years ago. It took eight years for Knox to be acquitted of a crime there was no forensic evidence she had a part in, and for which she was initially tried and imprisoned. Her involvement as an accomplice in the crime was attributed to her attitude when confronted by interrogators. She was out of her depth as a 20 year old, and didn't know how to react it seems. 

A psychology research project demonstrated how it's possible in a high proportion of cases to identify a guilty party under interrogation from their body language, whereas this is not so with an innocent party, whose reactions are naturally more ambiguous and influenced by confused feelings about being under examination. An interrogator may read this confusion as evidence of guilt or complicity, but it's a presumption which may not survive scrutiny. It's all down to how we look at and listen to someone, and whether we think we already know about who they are and what they think.

In this era of sound-byte news when information is over-simplified for popular consumption, it's no wonder that Britain is in such a mess of brexit. Dialogue is overwhelmed by simplistic confrontation, and extremists are pushing the country towards open conflict. Parliament is wildly condemned by some for betraying 'the people', who just want to 'get on with it', whatever that means. Parliament is struggling, despite efforts to curtail its responsibilities, to maintain dialogue in a situation of great complexity which cannot be reduced to simplicities, that take time to ensure justice for all. It's taken three years so far and may take much longer to resolve in a way that achieves true common good.

The country's most senior lawyers are considering whether Boris Johnson's proroguing of Parliament for such time is legal or not, and opinion is divided even at the highest level. What best serves the common good? is the issue behind the legal debate. How is is possible to look at this with fresh eyes, without prejudice, without vested interest, without presuming this is typical rather than unique. It's a conversation which needs to happen between people of opposing views throughout our divided land. Urgently.

Walls that tell stories

It rained yesterday morning, but the weekly grocery shopping needed to be done so I donned the new pair of waterproof trousers sent me by my sister June, with my elderly jacket, given new life by Clare with a waterproofing solution in our washing machine, and went about my business. Rain was promised after lunch when I went for my afternoon outing in the park, so I dressed up again, but this time it didn't rain. Our weather is ever unpredictable!

As I wait for the next op, a week Thursday, each day it seems that the condition of the wound improves slightly. Most noticeably, I can sit for longer without pain or discomfort. Three hours watching telly on the sofa instead of giving up after a short while and retiring to bed to watch on my tablet instead.

This morning Clare had an X-ray appointment at Cardiff Royal Infirmary, as she has problems with a 'clicky' right hip, maybe due to joint wear and tear. For once I was able to sit comfortably in the car on the way there, and drove back without discomfort. I used a special dense foam cushion to protect me from the ravages of the shaped seat. I've tried using it in the car several times before and it was of no use at all, due to pressure on the open wound. It's healed to such an extent that it can now bear pressure when I'm sitting down. This is real progress as far as I'm concerned. Sure, it's still open, leaking gunk from inside me, but far less so, and much easier to manage in everyday life. It makes the wait bearable.

The CRI, as the old central Cardiff hospital is known, is a sprawling ensemble of fine Victorian stone and brick buildings running along the south side of Newport Road. The emergency out of hours GP service is located in one section, and a local GP surgery in another, plus an assortment of specialist services, dealing with mental health, substance abuse, and sexual health which in my seminary days was commonly known as The Pox clinic. There's also an X-ray facility there to which GPs refer patients.

Once we'd found the waiting room, I went hunting for a toilet along the very long corridor which is the building's backbone, and was impressed by the variety of plaques on the walls commemorating the patrons and major donors who funded hospital's construction starting with a Dispensary in 1822. There's one very large marble plaque containing scores of donor names, from a major public fund raising drive between 1840 and 1880. It includes donations from a succession of Mayors, landowners, and clergy including the Bishop of Llandaff. 

One clerical name I especially looked for and found was that of the Rev Charles Thompson. In those days he was Vicar of St John's City Parish Church within whose parish boundaries lay the hospital and nearby Cardiff Gaol, plus the city's military barracks out in Maindy. Thompson was the incumbent at a time of huge population expansion. He took initiatives to start six mission churches, and the addition of side aisles and a chancel to St John's, to accommodate the population increase. 

His name appears near the end of the long list. He can't have been all that long in post at the time the fund raising drive ended. The names of many of the City's great and good in the heyday of Victorian prosperity and expansion are recorded on those donation plaques, so many lives intersecting in a major community humanitarian project. A veritable Victorian Who's Who of Cardiff.

Fortunately there was no delay in Clare's appointment, and by half past ten she was dropping me off in Canton to walk home while she went to her weekly study group. I went home and did some writing until she returned for lunch.

During my afternoon walk along the Taff, I came across two men with cameras near Blackweir Bridge, one of them in a wheelchair. Birdwatchers. In the grassy riverbed patch below the path, among the masses of gulls were an egret and the older heron. We chatted, naturally, and they told me they'd seen and snapped the older and younger heron together. And a Kingfisher, in perfect lighting condition for good photos, on the willow at the water's edge. I saw some of their photos and was pleased for them. Now I know the Kingfisher is a visitor to this spot, I'll keep a keen eye out in future, hoping for a lucky sighting with a camera in hand.

Then, a lady came up the path, declaring her pleasure in seeing a heron further downstream. It was probably the young bird of the pair. I pointed out the egret and the heron, and shared the delight of the moment. It's gratifying that so many people take pleasure in this surprising wildlife sanctuary, so close to the city centre.

Running, timing, waiting

Kath and Rhiannon ran in the Cancer Research fundraising 'Race for Life' 5k fun run through mud yesterday. Being well balanced and fleet of foot, neither seems to have fallen, to judge by the shared photos, only their legs and shoes were a mess. Rhiannon was the one all the sponsor money went to, and she raised £85 from family and friends bless her.

With my Sunday service duty plan overturned by recent events I joined Clare sitting in the pew at St Catherine's this morning. Sunday school has re-started after the summer break and two dozen young children came in during the Eucharistic prayer. I wish they all came in, either before it, and learn to be present as others pray, watch if not sing, or enter at the conclusion. There's be no harm in a pause long enough for this, so that all could join in saying the Lord's Prayer together. Either way makes it a better experience for adults and children alike, even if it requires a bit more thoughtful managing.

Clare went to Bristol for her monthly study group in the afternoon. I was grateful for sunshine and warmth again, as my daily walk took me through Bute Park, discovering some marvellous trees on a path which I hadn't walked before. The younger heron was perched on a rock below the weir. Does any fish ever get caught by the river's herons or cormorants, I wonder?

There was nothing I wanted to watch on telly, so I spent the evening reflecting and writing. 

Fruitful season

Today we had a long lie in and a lazy morning, then went blackberry picking in the boundary hedge on the northern side of Pontcanna Fields in the afternoon. Between us we picked a kilo, which Clare then transformed into a delicious puree. It goes nicely with the tasty cooking apples I was given on Thursday at St John's from Ruth's generous garden tree. "Last year no fruit" , she said. "This year more than we can eat or store."

I'm getting used to being back in waiting mode until the next op, reassured by having received a new appointment letter this morning, confirming what the surgeon told me on Thursday. I'm comforted as well by the continued improvement in my condition, even though I am still being rudely awakened in the small hours of the night, by a strong sensation in my perineum of receiving an electric shock, as nerve ending reconnect. Each night at the moment, however, I find I'm able to sleep longer, waking up 3-4 times rather than 5-6. 

After supper, I caught up on the latest BBC Four crimmie "Darkness - Those who kill." It's grim, with a strong sub-theme on the impact of childhood abuse, and violence against, with mini discourses on criminal profiling thrown in, hence the English title, I suppose. I'd love to know how accurate the info is in reality, but am disinclined to start reading up on the subject.

   

More political upheaval and uncertainty

One of the builder's craftsmen came yesterday to finish off a few small outstanding details on the renovated rear of the house. Both walls have been painted right up to the roof in magnolia and a little extra light is reflected into the garden as a result. A tree surgeon wielding a chainsaw was at work in the garden opposite ours, reducing the size of some of its trees. This will also let in a bit more light, although it will mean less cover for small birds until they grow back. As we saw after several gardens were drastically pruned a few years ago, this leads to a reduction in small birds and the dominance of gulls, crows, pigeons and magpies, not to mention cats. Vegetation grows back after a couple of years but sadly, small birds are slower to return.

I spotted swifts and swallows foraging in the air above Pontcanna Fields when I took my daily work, also a family of pied wagtails, and the older heron, trying out a vantage point on the east river bank, different from its usual habitat by Blackweir bridge. The younger heron stand there on watch more often these days. I wonder if this is the younger bird ousting the elder (perhaps its parent?) from the prime site for hunting,

We continue to follow the Parliamentary crisis with astonishment and dread. There's simply no let-up in the uncertainty clouding the future direction of the country. Boris Johnson has lost a great deal of credibility this week in the eyes of party members who recently elected him. The speculation is that if he could call an election soon, his party would win, probably because of the support he receives from movers and shakers from brexit backing newspaper industry. 

Opposition to him and his plans grows, adding to divisions in the Tory party as well as in the country. Parliament has now voted to outlaw the no-deal conclusion the government seems to favour, and stop an election being called before the October 31st deadline. Given the lack of evidence of a realistic negotiating strategy for withdrawal, this throws a spoke into the wheel of the Johnson juggernaut. His tactics amount to little more than bullying and bluff. At last members of Parliament, even of his own party, are expressing their disgust, heaven knows where this is going to lead.

Another episode of 'Non Uccidere tonight, on More Four. This week's episode focused on a Tunisian Muslim immigrant family and the commnity context in which an honour crime was committed. It also portrayed an Italian man about to separate from his wife, converting to Islam, in reaction against the piety of his Catholic wife, having falling in love and having an affair with the crime victim. An interesting twist to the tale.
  

  

 

On inadvertantly moving the goalposts

I was up and breakfasting at six thirty this morning, then preparing a hospital bag for my surgery  appointment this afternoon. Then at ten fifteen I walked to St John's to celebrate the Eucharist with half a dozen regulars. Clare arrived early while I was drinking tea afterwards, nervous about traffic congestion on the drive to Llandough hospital by midday. We set out early enough to visit Penarth Tesco filling station en route, as the car announced it was running low on fuel. Even then, I checked in a quarter of an hour early, and began the wait.

After getting undressed, I went through the routine interrogations with two nurses and then a houseman, who asked what I had last had to drink. I mentioned the cuppa I had at St John's and he frowned, and disappeared to check with something. He returned with bad news. The op had been vetoed by the anaesthetist as there was not enough time before the end of the afternoon's procedures for the tiny amount of skimmed milk I'd ingested to be digested.

Being in no position either to question or understand the clinical science behind this decision and knowing how risk averse they have to be, it was a matter of accepting that in one thoughtless moment I'd screwed up.

I was upset with myself and feeling desperate, but a few moments later, Mrs Cornish the surgeon came on to the ward, and spoke with me before I left. She agreed it was bad luck, especially as I've been dairy free for a year. She graciously undertook to book me in for her next surgical session on the 19th, two weeks today, the 50th anniversary of my diaconal ordination as it happens.

I took the bus back and walked home from the stop near Ninian Park station. Clare had just started lunch when I arrived, and she'd cooked for me, thanks to my message from the hospital. And now I have to endure the humiliation of telling everyone who is likely to ask how the op went what an old fool I've been. At least the sun shone when I went out for a walk along the Taff late afternoon.

  

Waiting time again

It was good to return to celebrating the midweek Eucharist with seven regulars this morning. I've not done much over the past couple of days, apart from routine shopping and my daily walk, but have slipped into waiting mode.

It's been good to see some Parliamentarians expressing their concerns about the hard right Boris Johnson government's behaviour. Some have put their career on the line, voting against their own party line.

Deep divisions of opinion about involvement with Europe are passionately held, and there are many more and different motives among people on each side for holding their position.

A binary referendum of the kind held with its carelessly devised options, revealed a deep fault line covered up by pragmatic compromises for 40 years. It has worked for the most part to the benefit of most people iin idfferent ways they may not always have been aware of. But didn't work well enough to benefit everyone, which I attribute to pre-existing social division and concentration of wealth and power in the London and the South of England.

Parliament is divided between dreaming nostalgic opportunists who think we'd be better off out, and those who realistically consider that we might lose more than we'd ever gain, even if they admit that EU governance needs a big overhaul. Three years have been wasted on power struggle and confrontation between these blocs.

Thank God in a way it's been deadlock and stasis, as desperation may lead from confrontation to dialogue, not only among Parliamentarians, but in the country as a whole, about what we need and hope for in future. Not just those who made the effort to vote, but also those who failed to vote for whatever reason at the time, plus those expats excluded from voting. From genuine dialogue it may be possible to reach a constructive compromise. If not there will be civil strife.

How to get people out of social media echo chambers to engage without nastiness and bullying is the big challenge, the other side of this present stalemated game of chess. But first, the liars bullies and blackmailers holding the country to ransom have to be discredited. An election may not the the answer. Political realignment of MPs, and / or reversing the hard right governmental coup needs to happen before resorting to the polls.

Tomorrow is my third round of surgery at Llandough. I'm a lot better now than I was five months ago, but the mild pain and discomfort coped with most of the time, and caring for an open wound have taken their toll on me.

I dread the thought of having the Seton's suture and/or a new wound for much longer and with no certainty of outcome. It plays on my mind, a bit like being a hostage in the dark chained to a radiator, not knowing what's going to happen, if or when freedom will be restored.

How to say this to Mrs Cornish the surgeon? I don't need sympathy, I need closure, both physical and psychological, to resume a full life before ageing sets in with a vengeance.

  

People on the streets

I was up early again this morning, and ready to leave home for a visit to the church of St Dyfrig and St Samson in Grangetown for the first of my interregnum duties there at nine. It's only ten minutes drive, but the threat of early road closures occasioned by this morning's 10k Kidney Wales fundraising fun run, prompted an early start, just in case.

There was a congregation of eighteen 60-90 year olds plus a couple of grandchildren, welcoming, cheerful and lively participants in the liturgy. The church hosts the local Romanian Orthodox Liturgy, now weekly, following straight after, but there was time for coffee and a chat before I set out for St Catherine's.

By that time, road closures and diversions had started, and traffic queues, meant that the return trip took me nearly twenty five minutes. As this left me rather late to join Clare in the congregation, I went straight home instead, started cooking some meat for lunch and then went out for a walk.

I hope there are no more road closures on other Sundays this month when I'm in Grangetown and then returning to take another service at St Catherine's. Given the amount of weekend shopping traffic coming into the city, road closures due to sporting events are disruptive for many people not involved as participants or spectators. All part of 'live and let live' in urban life I suppose.

The Sikh community was also due to make a procession from Tudor Street to the Castle today in honour of the birthday of Guru Nanak, and the anniversary of their Gurdwara. Roads would be closed for this too, though not for so long. Last weekend was the Gay Pride procession around town to City Hall. There were Christians involved in that for sure, but as individuals rather than in a group. It's been many decades since there was last a specifically Christian religious procession of any size through the city centre.

Walking in the park again later in the afternoon I caught sight of a group of eight Missel Thrushes which is rather unusual. Normally you're luck to see a pair  I later learned that they tend to migrate south in groups to over-winter.