Dydd Gwyl Dewi

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    

   

Ministered to and ministering

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

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

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

   

The wait goes on, and on

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

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

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

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

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

  

Church visitor

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

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

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

  

Another match day in town

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

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

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

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

One week on

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

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

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

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

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

  

Appointment chaos

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

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

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

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

Requiem for Mac

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Post-op - day four

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

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

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

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

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

Post op - the Lord's Day

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

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

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

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

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

Post-op day two

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

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

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

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

Post-op day one

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

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

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

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

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

  

A cutting edge saints day to remember

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Waiting days

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   

A Parish and Cathedral day

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

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

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

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

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

  

A royal night out

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

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

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

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

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

Legacy filing kit

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

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

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

A different kind of listening

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

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

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

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

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

Coping with ups and downs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dozy days

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

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

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

Winter music

This morning, with the temperature hovering freezing, I celebrated the midweek Eucharist again at St John's with eight others, then went to Riverside Surgery for a change of dressing before walking home in time for lunch. By teatime, rain was turning into sleet, with snow promised later. We went to town by bus in the evening walking to the Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama for a piano recital.  By this time, pavements were treacherous and I regretted my choice of footwear.

Llyr Williams played a couple of Schubert's last sonatas, plus two of the elaborations on a couple of songs from his 'Winterreise' cycle by Franz List. A powerful evening's music. Schubert's sonata in B Flat was the subject of BBC Radio 4's 'Soul Music' programme earlier in the week. By coincidence, an unfamiliar musical masterpiece was given its historical context, and its key music themes were already familiar by the time we heard it performed live. And what a performance! 

Wales has to be most proud of one of its great Classical music interpreters and performers. I love his passion and the energy he brings to the work. In performance, he doesn't forget that that Schubert had just passed  thirty when he went through his final phase of creative output, knewing, like Mozart that he didn't have long to live. 

To get home after the concert, we caught a 63 bus going up Cathedral Road. The driver announced a change of route just beyond our stop, avoiding the last and steepest part of Penhill, just in case the falling snow was unsurmountable. Meadow Street looked beautiful and quiet under its fresh white blanket. It never lasts long, but it gives an excuse to get a camera out for some special night shots. 

  

A trouble shooting visit and the sound of 'cello chez nous

I had a notification from my GP surgery early this morning asking me to book in for a hypertension review, rather puzzling as my blood pressure is being checked in surgery on a regular basis in the run up to the operation. It's always a lot higher in the surgery than at home where I'm more comfortable and relaxed than I can ever be in clinic. Then I remembered that my my three monthly medication supply is about to run out, so maybe there was a hidden logic to the scheduled message anyway. Just in case, I phoned to check if this was needed, and ended up getting a GP appointment straight after the Eucharist at St Catherine's this morning, which I was asked to celebrate. 

There were nine of us at the service. I then popped over to see the doctor, then returned for a cup of coffee and a chat ten minutes later. I think he was satisfied by the chart of home readings I'd taken, that all was as good as it could be under the circumstances. A medication review will be necessary once I've recovered from surgery, if my blood pressure has naturally dropped to where it should be for a man of my age. Still, with the op in two weeks, that's at least another month away.

I was grateful to have another acupuncture session booked for just after lunch, as the last couple of days of wound pain and discomfort have been pretty taxing on my energy level. It did me a power of good, though I felt it was a good idea to ask Clare to accompany me on a visit to Russell's to trouble-shoot his computer. He had received a couple of emails recently some someone claiming to have hacked his router, planted malware on his machine, and threatening to expose him for downloading pornography unless he paid a sum in bitcoin. He'd meant to ask me about this yesterday, but forgot and rang later in the evening. 

I thought this was something about which he should contact his ISP, Plusnet, but in searching for a helpline contact number, I came across a user group forum in which was posted an exact description of a similar scam email content. I reported this to Russell, but thought it'd be a good idea to look at his machine, a Dell laptop still running Windows 7, but now doing so very slowly. His broadband speed was stable and adequate for his kind of usage, but the machine ran slowly. It was using the old Windows Security essentials suite, and was fully up to date. 

An imposed security scan revealed nothing suspicious, which was a good start, so I installed CCleaner. It took more than an hour to run. It was the first system cleanup that had been run in its six years of life. Over 15GB of redundant files and nearly 1,900 useless Registry entries were removed. I think it should be OK for the future, as the CCleaner installation will pop up a spring-clean notification from time to time, which I know will get attention. Such a shame for Microsoft to foist such a badly designed system on an unwitting public. 

I'd like to persuade Russell to use Linux, but he relies on several Windows only programs, the equivalent of which would need to be found, installed and learned, and that's a bit of a learning curve for someone of ninety two. 

About the time we were due to leave, Clare had a phone call from Eloise, a therapist who works with her on muscular problems. She's also a 'cello teacher, and Clare had invited her to give a lesson to one of her students at our house, using my father's 'cello, which is stored chez nous for Rachel, as it would be too vulnerable to the horrible climate conditions in Phoenix where she lives.

The call reminded Clare that we were in danger of running late to get home, so we departed rapidly and joined a stream of traffic going into town which was thankfully only a fraction of the stream of traffic leaving town, so we got home with five minutes to spare. It was lovely to hear Eloise playing one of the Bach 'cello suite opening pieces on my dad's 100 year old instrument. She was very taken with it, and looks forward to returning for another play, another lesson. What a pleasure for us!

  

Hard decision times

Our artist friend Fran came to lunch yesterday. In recent months she has been working on the initial stages of PhD studies into the iconography of Sofia - Holy Wisdom. For her it's meant lots of reading and the occasional difficult seminar meeting, but no time for painting, so she's decided this path is not for her. She needs a way to enquire which is more praxis oriented, and steeped in dialogue with other practitioners engaged the same theme. The standard scholarly route seems too narrow and head centred to stimulate a creative response. Thankfully she has discovered this before expending a great deal of energy on it. I still look forward to the eventual outcome. She's a wise and thoughtful person.

This morning, Clare went to her study group at Russell's house. I had another dressing change visit to Riverside Clinic after lunch and then I drove to Dinas Powys to drink coffee and chat with Russell about the spiritual impact of modern technology on our lives today. It's something we're both interested in.

Clare went off to choir practice not long after I got back. I don't have enough spare energy to be able to acquit myself usefully in group singing. It's a disappointment, but I cannot tell from one day to another what impact the behaviour of my wounds will have on me, as it's so variable. After several quietish days with minimal pain and discomfort, today wasn't a good one.

More brexit votes in Parliament this evening. I'd be amazed if these result in a breakthrough, given the insistences already given by the EU that further changes to the negotiated withdrawal agreement are out of the question. No only that, but also deep seated division of opinion and political power plays being made by MPs make consensus seem unreachable. Meanwhile the day of withdrawal gets ever closer, and with it, heaven knows what kind of chaos.

  

Good news for the Parish

We went to St Catherine's Parish Eucharist this morning. Fr Roy Doxsey celebrated and preached. It must be more than a year since we last met over at St German's.  Like me he's been busy with locum duties in Llandaff and St David's dioceses, and has also done a locum stint in St Helena, standing in for Bishop Richard Fenwick, a contemporary ordained in Llandaff the same year as me. At the end of the service, he announced the appointment of Fr Rhys Jenkins as a non-stipendiary Curate in the Benefice from the beginning of Lent this year. Rhys is a GP in Ely, lives in the Benefice and knows the three churches well as a lay person and now as a priest. He's a welcome addition to the ministry team and the news was welcomed with delight by all who know him.

After lunch, I walked to St David's hospital for a dressing change, and from there caught the 61 bus to Fairwater for a bereavement visit. I met the family of a young man of 25 born severely disabled and looked after by his parents throughout his life. Despite the extreme limitations of his life, he was much loved and developed a radiant personality , endearing himself to all who got to know him as he grew from child to adult. His parents had never expected him to live so long, as his condition was such that he could have died at any time, but they accepted each day with him as a gift, and are now profoundly grateful for the grace they have received from him. Meeting them, and his sister was a rather special experience. I expect that officiating at his funeral at St John's, is going to be out of the ordinary, and very well attended. There's lots to reflect upon as I prepare for that.

Update time, reflection time

Clare went to the gym just after seven this morning. I had a lie-in, dozing and listening to the radio for another three hours. It was an overcast and rainy day. I ventured out for some exercise after lunch but soon my rain jacket was soaked through, so I headed home, fed up with this  miserable weather. I miss Mediterranean mildness and blue skies.

At least it meant I could occupy myself, supervising the installation of updates to my Windows 10 computers. This invariably means an hour or so when they are unusable or running frustratingly slow, with a series of reboots, and sometimes security or software updates clashing with operating system updates to the detriment of all. It's a continuing shambles leaving hundreds of millions of dependent users frustrated and less than fully productive.

I keep promising myself to make the laptop a dual boot Linux Mint device, or else ditch Windows entirely. Keeping one Windows machine for legacy software usage seems necessary, albeit less so, now that the Cardiff Business Safe workload has dwindled to nothing. That's a sad tale of distrust and business intrigue, unworthy of everyone involved, including me. I simply ran out of patience with those clashing alpha male egos, and lost confidence that I could make a positive difference and build sound bridges of trust.

This may have something to do with the time several years ago when my present physical troubles first emerged. Work demands became less easy to manage and I had to disengage from day to day business affairs and relationships. Ultimately, however,if you don't garner enough of the right kind of active support for such an innovative voluntary social enterprise, failure is inevitable sooner or later, even if it is after ten years in operation. There's no point in lamenting about nobody caring enough, and taking things for granted. As my mother used to say "Don't care was made to care."
    

Unfamiliar Lieder

A brief visit to the GP surgery this morning for a blood pressure check. Yet again in the surgery it raises a frown. When I get home, and sit comfortably in an armchair, the readings average out close to the desired norm. Chairs in the surgery have hard surfaces, and without cushion support, pressure on my perineum causes pain. The discomfort leads me to tense my thigh muscles to reduce this. It isn't even the fabled 'white coat syndrome' many people reportedly suffer from in a clinical setting. You'd think the diagnostic process would be attuned to this kind of issue by now. I believe It's only around a century since this was introduced into regular medical practise.

Clare went out early to the University Optometry School that she visits as a glaucoma patient. She volunteers there to be examined by student trainees for a few hours. We met afterwards at the Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama for lunch and then a recital of two dozen German Lieder sung by a group of a dozen students working with half a dozen accompanists. It was superbly executed, with some remarkable young voices in performance, and challenging accompaniments from masters of the genre, Schubert, Schumann, Brahms, Mendelssohn. Almost all were unfamiliar, but well chosen for their variety and beauty. Several songs were composed by Clara Schumann and by Fanny Mendelssohn. Their works are gaining recognition nowadays, having been attributed to the men in their lives for the past two centuries.

We then walked into the city centre aiming for our habitual tea and cake in John Lewis', but having got up early, for several days in a row, I ran out of the surplus energy needed to inhabit shops, and headed for home on the 61 bus instead, to lie low for the rest of the day. I'm having to avoid pushing myself to exhaustion these days. Open unhealed wounds drain one's energy reserves, like recovering from surgery, so they say. It's the Feast of St Paul's Conversion today, I was too tired to trek over to St Luke's for the evening Mass, and disappointed about that.

    

A Saint for Unity Week

This morning, I had an early phone call from Pidgeon's funeral directors about a funeral at funeral at St John's which Emma isn't free to take on. I then walked down to St John's to celebrate the midweek Eucharist for a dozen people. Thank goodness I am still able to do some useful work. 

It's the feast of St Francois de Sales, the 17th century Bishop of Geneva in exile. This had me reminiscing with the congregation about visiting the basilica of the Visitation in Annecy where he and St Jane de Chantal are buried. His book 'Introduction to the Devout Life' written especially to nurture lay people's spirituality in the everyday world was the first of its kind. As the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity nears its end, a saint whose teaching is appreciated ecumenically these days, and linked with Geneva, birthplace of the World Council of Churches, and neighbouring Haute Savoie is particularly appropriate. 

Sadly, as old wounds of division in the Body of Christ are healing new ones open. I am thinking of schism between Moscow and Kiev Patriarchates, between conservative fundamentalist evangelicals and the liberal mainstream. It's a pity that ecumenism doesn't get the same attention these days as it did when we were young. Nowadays it's being taken too much for granted, and the imperative to 'be reconciled' slips out of focus.

After returning home to cook lunch in time for Clare's arrival from her morning in the kindergarten, I went to Riverside Health Surgery for another dressing change. Later we went into town to browse aimlessly in the shops (on my part at least) and end up with tea in John Lewis'. A rather dull routine really, to punctuate the passage of time between today and operation day, supposedly three weeks from now. 

I can't help wondering if it will be postponed again and what I'll do if this happens. Becket's play 'Waiting for Godot' comes to mind. Or maybe Kafka's 'The Trial'. Three months delay has taken its toll in stress and weight loss. The gentle care and support of GPs and the District Nurse team keeps me from despair at the apparent indifference to suffering of both the hospital management and surgical team.

   

Bingewatch finale

Tuesday passed uneventfully, apart from a visit to the wound clinic, and another couple of episodes of Professor T watched with great interest, as his own back story of suppressed trauma continues to come out in fits and starts, in between working on crimes in his original way.  There's no knowing how it will all end.

Wednesday morning, I celebrated the St Catherine's midweek Eucharist, went for an acupuncture treatment again at the Natural Health Clinic after lunch. It did me a power of good, as I was feeling pretty drained after a few not so good days. In the evening I watched the last two episodes of Professor T - a conclusion, in which the mystery underlying his eccentric behaviour is revealed in full. It's a tragic story which concludes with the death of his mother, after a reconciliation brings closure in his often troubled relationship with her and his senior university colleague. It brings a measure of healing and liberation for him from dark shadows of his unhappy childhood. 

The thirty nine episodes of this movie series, like a thick blockbuster novel, portrays a gifted, highly intelligent, learned man going through a colossal mid-life crisis, involving a nervous breakdown, a spell in prison, his trial for murder - in effect, for involuntary manslaughter, given his state of mind, then reconciliation with those closest to him, recovery, and resumption of his professional life as an acclaimed university criminology teacher. A bit far fetched, and whimsical maybe, but the story's credibility rests on his reputation for uncompromising truth telling, even when it comes to the truth about himself. His profound inner pain is in part due to inability to plumb the depths of his own pain. It's quite a breakthrough when he finds he can entrust himself to a gifted therapist.

On top of a moving deathbed scene, there's a remarkable finale, in which his close colleagues and friends gather in a downpour to lay his mother to rest. A new-to-series-three police colleague has brought her newborn with her to the graveside. The sun comes out, and the baby is passed around for all to admire and cherish, even to Professor T, no longer wearing his OCD signature rubber gloves. He is smiling now in a relaxed way, his normal posture throughout having been a straight face, with the nearest to a smile he can mange more like a charmless grimace. It's a transformation. There's fine acting throughout by Koen de Bouw portraying such an odd character so consistently.

Then, spontaneously the mourners begin to dance slowly by the graveside - a dance of death? No, more a dance of life in the face of mortality. It's a coda to the drama, in the same way that a play or an opera has a festive finale plus maybe an epilogue. There was, in fact, an epilogue, delivered by the Professor in a prior scene where he is concluding his annual course of lectures. It summarises his own self-learning journey from fearing he was once a perpetrator to realising he was an unwitting victim of the violence and lies of others.

Homo sapiens, that strange creature born of evolution is still far from perfect.
So imperfect in fact, that a simple rational observation is impossible.
Whoever you thought did it didn't always do it.
And so it's important that future criminologists such as yourselves, realise that this strange creature must be approached from the heart too
So go out into the world, analyse with your mind, but judge with your heart too.

Recalling that in the story, this goes on in the unconscious mind of a highly successful and learned expert, it's a salutary reminder that great intellects in any age may be driven at least in part by neglected experiences of brokenness in life.

I enjoy crime and spy fiction as their stories address social political and moral concerns of their time and place, giving a context for wrong-doing. Investigations can dig deep in the search to identify the motives of a perpetrator, they can tell the background stories of the investigators, and may show their lives as broken, sacrificed on the altar of solving crime, but rarely do they dig as deeply into their motives as this series does with Professor T in thirty hours of drama. Well worth watching and learning from, I'd say.

A happy move made

After a few difficult days of managing my affliction (it's never the same two days running), I felt good enough to drive, so we took a trip to Bristol to visit Owain and see his new flat in Redfield. It's the first time I've felt comfortable enough to drive for several months, so it did me good. It's the first time, in fact, for us to use the Severn Crossing without having to pay a toll, and about time too!

Owain now lives in another quiet back street of a district he describes as, "About to be gentrified". His place has been modernised nicely, a one bedroom flat on the first floor. In his first couple of weeks he's set up his record decks unpacked his disc archive, bought a bed and other furniture. We took him some bowls, kitchen utensils and towels over with us. He just needs a sofa now, narrow enough to get up the stairs!

We lunched at a small friendly cafe/restaurant with an interesting menu called 'The Faraway Tree' in nearby Church Road, after inspecting the place and taking photos to show to the rest of the family. Then we walked up the road to St George's Park, five minutes away from where Owain lives. This is a generous municipal open space with avenues of mature trees, a lovely lake, a playground and a skateboard park, plus a band of volunteers who help keep the are clean and safe for all to use. 

He's been living in Redfied since he moved to Bristol, and settled there to be fairly close to work, and to mates living in the district. It's got a great variety of old style small shops representing the diverse cultural mix of local residents. I think he chose well. We're both so happy to see him in a place of his own, after a long period of coping with insecurity, looking relaxed, and confident in the choices he's made. You can't live your life through your children, but rejoicing at seeing them living it happily on their own terms gives great peace of mind.

In the evening, more translation work for Clare, more 'Professor T' episodes for me.

Translation update in progress

We went to the Eucharist at St Catherine's third morning, but apart from a wound clinic visit after lunch, didn't go out again. This last few days Clare has been preoccupied with translating from the German sections of a new revised and updated edition of the book about the influence on babies of the usage of mobile phones tablets, TV and computers by their parents and others caring for them. It's amazing to think that it's six and a half years since we worked together on publishing an English translation of the original Swiss German version of 2008. 

Technology has developed so rapidly over the past decade, and is now so much more ubiquitous and available on demand anywhere, that risks to child development foreseen at that time have been widely researched and become more an issue of public concern and debate, although not in all quarters. A revised edition is timely to say the least, and now the generic term 'digital devices' has grown in currency, a new English edition should have a snappier title. 

When not exercising, cooking or shopping, I have been working my way through a third series of episodes of Professor T on More Four 'Walter Presents' euro-movie channel. An eccentric, thought provoking, tragi-comic Belgian crimmie, still laced with literary and philosophical quotations, and making effective use of a range of classical and modern music soundtracks, thoughtfully chosen to echo, not only the scene, but underlying dramatic themes. It requires a certain level of concentration not only for reading the subtitles to Flemish/French dialogue, but to keep up with scene switching as two connected stories unfold at the same time. Very sophisticated, well crafted and worth the effort.

Episodes in the first half of series three place the savant criminologist in prison, where he awaits trial for shooting a corrupt policeman. Initially, he is bullied but soon fellow inmates are turning to him for help and advice relating to their own cases. He gets to share a cell with a savant turned serial killer whom he helped put behind bars for life, who bears him no ill-ill, as the man has found a role and a purpose in prison life and an understanding of his murderous past. It's fascinating device, a quirky example perhaps, of the 'wounded healer' redemptive theme.

  

Birthday girl

This morning I felt able to sit comfortably enough to get the 61 bus to Splott to collect the Polo from the garage and drive it back again. It was a pleasure to get out and do this. The window winder and door locking fault seemed something of a mystery to the mechanic who worked on it. They had a spare driver-side winder mechanism from a comparable scrap car, and it worked a treat, activating the central locking system perfectly, instead of acting as it it was a passenger side winder and lock mechanism. Perhaps at some time or another it had been swapped over, but finally broken. Anyway, it's been fixed now, and very kindly at no cost to us.

After stopping at Lidl's to stock up on a few items I missed out on earlier in the week, I went home and cooked a stir fry for lunch. John our plumber came by to see what he could do about the short plastic overflow pipe under the sink which has cracked as if perished in several places. How this occurred in a confined space where it's subjected to no movement stress and not exposed to sunlight is inexplicable.

I walked to Riverside Surgery for another wound dressing this afternoon, while Clare was out at a physical therapy appointment. Both of us require regular maintenance outings to keep us functional these days.

Sister June is eighty four today. I rang to sing her Happy Birthday and we chatted for ages. I think she's in better shape than the Edwardian building she lives in, long ago converted into flats, showing its age, and suffering from a selection of owners or sub tenants who seem indifferent to problems with the property's condition, or everyday safety and security of its occupants. 

I wish she'd move, but she's determined to stay and complain to the property management company about discharging their contractual obligations, wit well informed and detailed emails. Working on drawing up plans for engineers and architects for much of her career means that she has acquired a fair amount of technical expertise about buildings, expertise she still relishes using, since her mind is as sharp as ever. 

Thankfully, she can still get out and walk to the shops, although she's not quite as fit and spritely as she'd like to be since having replacement knees. Wandsworth Common where she lives, is a fairly safe area, but life is made precarious for elderly pedestrians by the presence of cycle riders with whom they are obliged to share the sometimes narrow and uneven pavements. It'll be a long while before public realm areas are reshaped by the local Council to accommodate safely both cyclists and walkers. Meanwhile it's elderly and vulnerable people who have to suffer, and cyclists who get the media attention.

Appointment kept, appointment deferred

I was up and breakfasting at seven this morning, ready for an early taxi ride to the Heath Hospital for an ultrasound cardiogram appointment at twenty to nine. The taxi dropped me off at the Gabalfa interchange and I walked the last half mile into the hospital, and arrived in good time for the scan. Unlike three years ago, it wasn't a cardiologist who did the job but a trained nurse, who would then send the report to the consultant. She didn't have much to say, and didn't comment on her findings. I will have to wait and see if there's a follow up to this procedure.

I walked back home via the big Tescos, where I stopped for a look around and bought a bargain SD card again. I've done this before, and now have three empty 16gb cards in stock, plus a couple of 8gb once that I try to recycle and keep in my wallet. I found on checking that when last I'd been able to sit comfortably to organise my SD archived storage, I'd stopped mid-job. It took me quite a while to figure out what my intentions had been at the time. Now that the Sony HX50 is dead, I decided to decant remaining photo files from a couple of 8gb cards to one 16gb card. When I get around to buying that replacement camera, I'll have a choice of empty new faster cards to use, just right for shooting video. Not that I've done that much, apart from music events. Thinking about that, I still have work to do on sound editing videos from the last Fountain Choir concert in St Catherine's - if I can figure out how to do it!

At lunchtime, we had our annual service visit from Matt, our gas heating engineer. The new system which we had installed last summer works well, and has been busier than usual these past months, as I've been feeling the cold more than usual, perhaps a consequence of losing weight since returning and fending off serious illness for so long. The operation should have been today. The new promised date is a month from today, if the surgical team keeps its promise. All I can do is be philosophical about it, recognise the huge competing demands on NHS time and resources, and live each with as much gratitude as I can muster.  

During my visit to Riverside Surgery for a wound dressing this afternoon, the regular District Nurse was accompanied by a student nursing assistant 'on observation'. It's the second time this week. On Monday it was a woman in her early twenties who'd recently returned from a year's internship in the Scilly Isles. Today it was a bearded young man from Wyoming in his early thirties, who'd come to Europe to work in Disneyland Paris a long time ago, and then decided to train as a nurse in the UK. I am getting to meet some interesting people in the course of treatment.

A crisis of conflicting conviction still unfolding

Last night I watched the BBC Parliament TV channel for the first time in many moons, as it covered the vote on the Government's brexit deal took place. The scale of the defeat seems to have taken the political pundits by surprise. Corbyn tabled a motion of no confidence in the Government and this was debated today. This time the political pundits predicted the motion would fail and it did 52/48% a close run thing like the brexit vote. The country is fairly evenly divided, nobody wants to concede. There's not much likelihood of further changes in the negotiated brexit deal being achieved. It's a very worrying situation. A majority of parliamentarians are opposed to a no-deal brexit. If calls for another General Election continue to fall on deaf ears, arguments for a second referendum continue to gain appeal. But will it happen?

On the BBC Radio Four Thought for the Day this morning, Daniel Greenberg, a Parliamentary legal advisor spoke from his perspective as a practicing Jew about the current political crisis. He observed how despite the polarisation of opinion and passionately held conviction, it was clear to him that Members of Parliament equally desired the country's common good, and that courtesy and respect characterised the ways people treated each other, despite profound disagreement. With these things, he trusted and hoped a way forward, a compromise would ultimately be found. I hope he's right. He also pointed out that while Jewish scripture has many passages in which enemies are hated, derided and spoken evil of, there are also prophetic passages in which this attitude is rebuked. God is greater than all our passionately held opinions. We should never lose sight of that.

I celebrated the Eucharist at St Catherine's this morning with a congregation of ten, my first duty of the interregnum. With my condition reasonably stable at the moment, I had enough energy to enjoy resuming a leadership role, and preaching briefly from phrases in the liturgical readings, about the uncertainties attached both to an interregnum and to the brexit process. I enjoyed that. Ann and Paul are off to Geneva for a few days next week and then going by train to Milan for a few more days - the joys of retirement! Ann was picking my brains about places to stay and things to see in Geneva, and when I got back home, I assembled a selection of my masses of Geneva photos, and emailed her a link, to offer an impression of what can easily be seen within a shortish radius of the city centre.

I walked from church to Lidl's in Leckwith to stock up on a few things the store does well, like nuts and cheap soya milk. I mistimed my effort and missed my acupuncture appointment. Fortunately I was able to get another one at five, as Peter had a spare space to fit me in. All that exercise plus an invigorating treatment did me a world of good. I may still be walking wounded but I am decently healthy and fit at the moment. Let's hope it stays like that while I wait the extra month for surgery.