Local housing developments

Cold with sunshine and showers today. I woke up late and posted my WhatsApp link to Morning Prayer at eight thirty before making breakfast. On my way to the Eucharist at St John's I bought stuff for this week's foodbank donation to take with me to church. The service with seven of us took place in the intimacy of the Lady Chapel, which is more appropriate for a small number. We chatted over coffee afterwards, and when I got home, Clare was already cooking a lentil curry for lunch. 

A few weeks ago furniture arrived at the house next door. Doll's house furniture, one of the neighbours said, all smaller sized items to convey the illusion of the house being larger than it is for the vendor's  photographer benefit. That's all been removed now. I wonder if someone will move in soon?  Renovation and sale ostensibly were completed three months ago. The place has been empty for over a year, awful in this time of housing shortage. Renovated houses in our street are selling now for prices 50% higher than the £250k of ten years ago. And these used to be regarded as affordable first time buyers homes, but are caught up in the continuing gentrification spiral. 

There's a large detached house with annexe at the junction of Romilly and Llandaff Roads which has been empty for several more years since tenants were evicted. No work has been done on it. Whether it'll be renovated or demolished I don't know. I guess there may be a lengthy planning procedure to be undertaken by any developer with an eye on such a prime site. It took long enough for the old laundry building and site on Llandaff Road to be redeveloped. The houses are finished now and being occupied. There are two new retail units fronting the street, one is being taken up with a bakery and cafe by Alex Gooch, artisanal baker with a prestigious reputation. That's a real coup for the site owners, and for the neighbourhood.

Next door to Tesco Metro at Canton Cross, there was an electronics and white goods store, started in the 1940s called 'Radiocraft'. It closed its doors in 2020 due the the pandemic and went over to on-line sales only before relocating to Penarth. October last, the building was demolished, after an announcement last year that a block of flats with ground floor retail space would take its place. A similar announcement was made about the old GPO sorting office site up the far end of Cowbridge Road West. It's good news in response to the chronic shortage of affordable housing, as both these site are to be developed by a housing association.

On my afternoon walk I bought some fruit and flowers and took them home. Clare was in the middle of an on-line Jazz lesson, so I slipped out and walked in the park for three quarters of an hour. It was good to go out and get back home again before the sun hit the horizon. I don't often get to do that at the moment, I find it difficult to adjust the timing of my routine. 

Before and after supper, I wrote the eulogy for next Monday's funeral, then we watched the final of Young Jazz Musician of the Year on BBC Four. Some great young musicians, in their teens and twenties but sounding so mature and accomplished. The future of Jazz is in good hands! Then, I finished the day by reading more of the latest John Le Carré novel, and went to bed too late again.

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 new year begins and another is remembered

We attended the Advent Sunday Parish Eucharist at St Catherine's today. In the afternoon Clare went to the German Lutheran Church concert with Royal Welsh College singers taking part at Conway Road Methodist Church, just around the corner from us. I hankered for a traditional Anglican start to Advent, and walked to the Cathedral at sunset for the Advent procession of Carols. Everything about it was beautiful and excellent - choice of music, much of it expected, but a few delightful modern surprises as well, with superb singing by the Cathedral choir. 

The nave of the Cathedral was full, though not the side aisles. Finding a seat with a good view meant walking right around the place. Texts were in English, with a little Latin, but no Welsh was used, sadly. I was a little disconcerted that the subdued 'vigil' lighting was just too dim for me to read from the hymn sheet. A sing of my age. I need much brighter light these days, and dared not resort to using my phone flashlight to see by. 

My eyes welled with tears during the opening responsory and hymn, sensing with heartfelt gratitude the continuity between this beginning of Advent liturgy, and worship in my student days, when my faith came fully alive and claimed me for priestly ministry. At the end of my first University term, I attended an Advent weekend silent retreat which opened my mind and heart in a way that has had a lasting effect on my life. Following this a month later with a Holy Week retreat with the Franciscans at Cerne Abbas completed what began at Advent.

Later, we watched the last episode of the dramatisation of Le Carre's 'Little Drummer Girl' on BBC One. It was a complex story of deception and betrayal, as spy stories are meant to be but I found the ever so stylish and authentic presentation just a little too disjointed to follow easily, cutting between sets of characters and scenarios without it being easy to figure out who was who, where they were and how the fitted in the story, despite occasional use of location titles. Good, but not really good enough to be gripping or persuade you care enough about the characters, all of whom seem to be in different ways, ruthless, cruel, manipulative and callous, on both sides of the Arab Israeli conflict. In the meanwhile, fifty years after this story was set, nothing really seems to have changed. The world continues to watch, seemingly helpless to effect any true justice and reconciliation on a scale which really matters.

Not Mothers' Day but ...

Appalled to hear BBC Radio Four 'Sunday' programme refer to 'Mothers' Day' this morning, actively contributing to the loss of indigenous religious culture this morning. Anywhere else apart from here in the UK, there is a Mothers' Day in May, with the same hype. What's the matter with them?

 

At St German's again. ready for the Mothering Sunday Eucharist, I was caught out by the discovery that I'd prepared my sermon around the wrong set of readings. Serves me right for not checking! So, after a brief read through, I improvised, and enjoyed the challenge, without going on too long. Cards, flowers and a votive candle were given out to the congregation before the final blessing, and people went over and placed them on the votive stand in front of Our Lady, remembering their own mothers, if they were no longer in this world to receive the flowers. It was quite moving.

Owain came over for lunch bringing flowers and chocolates for his mum, and afterwards we went for a stroll around Thompson's Park. A couple of large trees have been blown down during the recent gales. They will take some clearing up.

Crocuses and daffodils are out in abundance, however, and the wonderful magnolia buds are just starting to break into flower.

They look the same every year, but still I take pictures of them, and marvel at their silent beauty.

Another beautifully crafted episode of Le Carre's spy masterpiece 'The Night Manager' on TV in the evening. The very opposite of action packed 'Spooks', everything happens at a snail's pace, generating an atmosphere of tension and suspense, even though it mostly takes place in the colourful bright sunlight of Mallorca.

Sneak thief

I arrived at St German's to celebrate Mass this morning, to learn that only moments before Angela's bag had been stolen from the back of the church, by a young man who'd entered just after she'd unlocked, and feigned to look around, and then snatched it when she deposited on a seat for a moment while attending to other things. He escaped on a bike, and was seen leaving by others arriving. Everyone was distressed, not just Angela. For me it brought back angry memories of the serial purse thief who hit St John's when I was Vicar there. Every time it happens, you think - if only ...

After the service, two policemen turned up, having heard the news. Angela having reported the crime was presumably busy cancelling her cards and getting her phone blocked. Her church keys were also taken, but thankfully, Richard, one of the church members, is a locksmith with a shop in Clifton Street, not far away. So, by the time we were already to depart for lunch, after coffee and a chat, both church and hall had been made secure again. What a heart break.

Again nasty weather, no opportunity to go out for an afternoon walk. I was most amused this morning to learn that I wasn't the only one complaining of fatigue and stiffness after the Stations of the Cross. In the evening the first episode of a film serialisation of John Le Carre's 'The Night Manager' had its first showing on BBC1. It was beautifully done, and the setting time shifted from the original 1990s to the present day. Given the continuing relevance of its look at the illegal arms trade, this is no bad thing. The great novelist himself was involved in making this development. The critics are beside themselves with excitement about it. Justifiably so, I'd say, on the basis of tonight's episode.

  

Bank holiday good read

It was such a dull Bank Holiday Monday that we stayed at home and read all day. It was an opportunity to read John Le Carre's novel 'A delicate truth' straight through apart from meals. Much of it is set in Gibraltar, where a botched secret anti-terrorist operation takes place during the latter years of the New Labour administration, making deniable use of American far-right mercenaries. It's also about a diplomat and a senior Foreign Office official who become whistle blowers, outraged by the secret exercise of power without accountability by a minister of state and the cover up which follows. At the end of the story it's unclear if they are successful in an endeavour that will certainly cost them their careers if not their lives.

Le Carre is a master story teller whose writing observes the corruption and deceit of the modern world with prophetic indignation, a great novelist, far more than just a writer of classy spy fiction. During my time in Andalusia, I haven't had the desire or good reason to visit Gibraltar, although it's only two hours drive from Fuengirola. I can't say that its curt portrayal in this novel has persuaded me to make the effort, should I return to the Costa del Sol.

  

Getting back into novel reading

Time slips by quickly. I'm getting right back into a routine that entails a daily visit to the CBS office wedged in between domestic and personal tasks. On Monday after work, I had a replacement screen fitted to my Samsung Galaxy Ace II. Only when I was on my way home on the bus did I discover that although the touch screen itself worked fine, the touch area and home button at the bottom of the screen didn't work. That meant a trip back to the shop on Tuesday morning to get it fixed. The tech guys were charming and apologetic. They were in a rush and I was in a rush at the end of Monday, so neither of us had tested it thoroughly before parting company.

While I was waiting for the second repair I popped into W H Smith, and impulse bought a couple of novels to read - Patricia Cornwell's 'Dust' and John Le Carre's 'A delicate truth', both of which hit my curiosity button, and were a discount bundle. I started the former to kill time, and was soon hooked. Over the past few years I haven't read many books. I simply lost interest. I read a lot of news on line, and get doses of fiction from watching telly, and on Monday that meant the first Episode of the acclaimed 'Hinterland' on BBC Four, which was first produced on S4C, and is gloriously bi-lingual, and for once it's not Danish or Swedish and English, it's Cymraeg - Ardderchog bechgyn! 

Blessed or cursed with a strongly visual way of engaging, I get a lot from well crafted authentic film drama. If you're interested in storyline and its messages, concentration of narrative in visual images saves lots of time. It's another way of saying that I'm impatient with slow convoluted descriptive narrative. If I want that sort of imaginative pleasure from words, I'd choose poetry to conjure with. Now, I like Cornwell's complex story lines, but tend to speed read terse descriptive passages she uses to evoke mood and atmosphere. In this respect, 'Dust' portrays the world in much the same way as in novels she wrote a dozen years ago - wintry, dank and grey for the most part.

I wondered if I still had enough patience and concentration not to get bored with reading a novel. I now realise that when I'm abroad or on holiday I have little taste for reading because there's so much to see take an interest in and take pictures of. Yet, leisure reading is a major industry, and every expatriate community I know of has some kind of book exchange facility, if not a library, so many if not most people do read. When I get stuck into a book, I shut the world out completely and read every spare moment of the day and evening until I fall asleep. That's easy when the world outside resembles the backdrop of a Patricia Cornwell novel, as it has done here lately.

Wednesday morning, I acquired a new office chair for home. It'll do me no end of good, as it sits tall enough at my desk to allow correct typing posture. I should have done this years ago. Ashley and I drove to the PMR offices in Chepstow in the afternoon, to sort out some issues with several radios. The weather had cleared up sufficiently by then to make it a very pleasant drive, with the deciduous trees along the route glamorous with fresh growth of leaves.