A prayer for growth

And all God's people said 'Saxifrage', although some said 'Aubretia' (actually, they pronounced it 'Or-bresher'). While others muttered 'Fuschia bush plants'. The rest simply wondered with wonderment at the potting compost.

New location, new direction?

Hallo again. Yes, what you see here are pictures of this morning's labour (and I do mean spine-shattering effort, which will be playing havoc with my comfortableness for a while yet).

You see, having bought a house with a garden is all very well, but the trouble is, it's spring now, and not only do I need to mow the lawn, I have invested in a few implements and some items of a plant-like nature.

I am being discipled by the excellent John & Mollie Oldfield in digging, sorting, composting and re-potting, and hope to revive my rubber plant and keep the new purchases alive for a week or two at least.

Check out the telly, as well, with vast leaves emerging from behind. I am very pleased with this set-up.

So you're looking at a frame I have constructed for the tomato plants, alongside the growbag of spinach I'm laying hands upon.

And then there is a blackberry bush (kind of) and another, which is destined to produce either loganberries or frustration.

And the front garden is destined to get the full-on herbaceous treatment, in the fullness of time. The fuschia's looking horticultural.

On reflection, it does seem slightly odd to have planted soft fruit bushes under a bird table, as encouraging sweet/fruity growth in the same location as encouraging avian visitors seems somewhat in conflict. As does establishing slug-lunch at such cost. But that's just the start of the battle, I'm guessing.

Who knows, all this could lead to spiritual growth, illustration and physical health. Meanwhile, I'm enjoying the process of learning, being trained and discovering new things about myself. All morning, as I dug through thick, cloying Midlands clay, the tune of the The Great Escape was playing in my head.

Meanhile, church life continues. I feel very settled here, knowing already one or two of the purposes for which God has uprooted me, having prepared the ground and fitted me into me-shaped spaces. See, the gardening metaphores are starting.

Another day, another bit of British Manufacturing

Hallo everyone. Sorry I've been a little bit quiet, but I've been keeping shtum for so long so that you can join with me in experiencing the long wait I've had for my new sofas to arrive.

And here they are.Prada 3-seater in Mocha leather, along with a Collins 2-seater in a similar but different leather.

Wrong style (actually, a bit nicer, but not the one I ordered as it wasn't the one in the sale).

Meanwhile, the delivery man said I can treat them as my own and they will deliver a matching pair in the fullness of time – hopefully not 11 weeks, but it doesn't matter since these are mine to use and sit upon and lie upon and cuddle upon (with a bit of luck, smoothness & co-operation...)

Upstairs, thanks to the previous weeks' delivery, and a near-superhuman effort on my part in construction, deconstruction, construction, fiddling, changing, deconstruction and construction – mostly down to unclear instructions and my inexperience – there is now a double bed in the double bedroom, which is lovely and fills the space rather well.

Thus I am open for guests. Form an orderly queue, no pushing, no shouting.

I've been making friends here, which hasn't been difficult, since I'm so gregarious and the people here are so in need of someone older, wiser, more spiritual and with a natty line in tasteful remarks. The Alpha course has been a good thing to do, as I've been thrown in at the deep end with some guests, as well as having the privilege of working with some excellent team-mates. Tomorrow I am giving the How to be Filled with Holy Spirit talk at the awayday. On Sunday I'm attending the How to Join the Church afternoon. I'll become a member officially once the form is signed, I guess.

First guest arrives on Tuesday, as HD pops in to take us both to see MFIT in Abergavenny. So, life here in Birmingham is busy, exciting, spiritually challenging, and has at least three items of furnture on which I can relax (two of them to the point of unconciousness).

Meanwhile, I've discovered a lovely bunch of people in my Life Group, which is larger than feasable and more friendly than a really friendly place. The standard practice is to each bring elements of a meal, which is consumed with gusto and garlic bread, usually, amid fellowship, chatter, laughter and caring concern. After the notices, someone will review the sermon from Sunday and ask some questions (frankly, questions of variable quality, I have to say) and then someone else will lead us into worship (with guitar or CDs) this is followed by prayertime.

I have also joined the local Fat Boy Club, to try to do a bit of course correction as my manly frame was tending towards the bloater phase once again. I have met three really decent chaps and the LighterLife Coach, who is a bit of a mystery. Recent careful action on my part has resulted in the loss of a stone.

Well, that's enough chatting for now.

Settling in, but not settling down

Well, it’s been a bit busy, which explains the lack of blog. Apologies to those of you who are eager for more news.

I think ChurchCentral is a bit splendid, as the prayer times this week have had a strong sense of the presence of God, and I’ve felt so at home and relaxed and a part of what is going on… Somehow my heart is being turned from caring about a seaside-resort-lovin’ arty-saucy city to a multi-racial landlocked heart-of-the-nation second-city.

Most of my at-home-ness is due to the wonderful welcome I have received from so many lovely people (and several of them are truly, deeply lovely), expressing friendship to me. I think I’ve settled on a Life Group (we meet on Thursdays for food, fellowship, worship, discussion of the Word and prayer) in a variety of homes, with a great bunch of people, many of whom are pregnant, it seems. Most of the others have recently (and I mean since Christmas) become engaged either to each other or to other members of the church.

In addition to Life Group, I have also been recruited onto the Alpha (local curry house), to share the leading of a Table (whatever that means) and to give a talk as well on the AwayDay. I’ve contacted one of the musicians and may become part of a band for Sundays, and I’ve started discussions which may lead to an invite to speak to the student group. Not bad for just 6 weeks or so… and the first two were pretty quiet, since many people were away for Christmas.

In my new house, most of the boxes are opened and emptied, although some ‘deep archive’ ones remain. The big bedroom is still a dumping ground, although it’s ideal for the ironing board and all that sort of laundry stuff. My office (illustrated) works well, and the lounge is a constant source of delight to me. Most evenings I stroll around it, marvelling that it take 10 steps to get from end to end, and that all my books, DVDs & CDs are stored there, along with a table & chairs. My sofas are on order (more about them, later, perhaps) and a flat-screen telly is featuring strongly on my To Purchase Once Thoroughly Researched list.

Since it’s winter, the garden makes no demands. Long may that circumstance continue.

Now I need to sell my car, which is parked outside the house and mocking me a little.

Oh, yes, this is all throwaway chatty stuff, but I never promised a theological treatise or even anger about roadusers every time, did I?

New home, new broadband connection

The First Fortnight

So here I am, cosily tucked away in a green, quiet, safe, pleasant part of Birmingham. It still fills me with a sense of purpose and joy to wake up in my new home; the past few months have been a whirlwind of planning and hoping and waiting and delays and rush and goodbyes and sadness and expectation. As you can imagine, this has left me feeling a little confused and on an emotional roller-coaster. Having long-term friends queuing up to say goodbye is really very odd indeed; what’s worse is when you have done the leaving thing but then you see them at church the following week, because you didn’t quite get away yet…

Anyway, the last piece of the jigsaw of the sale of my flat fell into place on Tuesday afternoon, and by the same evening, the removals man was delivering cardboard cartons and I was in time trouble. His crew would arrive, he said, at 8am on Friday and get my stuff down and away into the van. He kept saying ‘van’, when I felt ‘lorry’ would have been a more reassuring word to use. Two solid days of frantic packing ensued.

As it turned out, the jigsaw relating to the purchase of my new property was not only far from falling into place; it was still in its box, with the cellophane seal around it, and packed deep in Gamley’s warehouse.

At last the lorry was stuffed and the back door sealed, so I walked round to Fox & Sons (Estate Agents) for the last time, to hand over my keys. There was also a chance of catching a final glimpse of the lovely Kerry, resplendent in one of her magnificent jumpers… but sadly she wasn’t there.

And so I no longer lived in Brighton. More than fifty years were over; twenty four of them at the same address.

But we arrived, a little later than anticipated, at Corn Mill Close, and the keys were miraculously ready for collection. I rendezvoused with my dear friends Russ & Alex, and they ferried me across town to the local estate agent.

Walking in to my new home was a voyage of delightful discovery; I’d last been in the place ten weeks before, and had really been looking at the rooms in a general way; ‘good size;’ ‘usuable shape;’ ‘one or two surprising extra bits.’ This was starting to sound a lot like Kerry again…

Anyway, now I was able to examine the rooms I owned in minute detail, and see where the power points were placed (usually in the least helpful places, naturally), look at carpet quality/pattern/stains, and become frustrated at the 40W eco-friendly bulbs in all the light fittings, which took the best part of a week to get up to full strength, which was jus about sufficient to cast dark shadows, but that’s about all.

Russ fired up the central heating while Alex and the boys settled in the lounge/diner for running races. I checked out all the rooms, making snap decisions about which ones would serve the various functions I had in mind. ‘This can be the office/study, just as I’d thought, while I can sleep in there. So, let’s put all the boxes in the big bedroom for now and I can sort it all out as I go along.’

There were a good number of nice surprises. There was a working tv, quite a lot of crocks and things in the kitchen; lamps; several brooms, a mop & bucket, and a dustpan & brush; a collection of cleaning materials in the cupboard under the sink. I was later to discover that I am now the owner of a wheelbarrow and an electric lawnmower, which came as a surprise and a bit of a wake-up call. This was Grown-upsville, Adult City. No longer a first-floor-flat dweller, me. I had grass, hedges, shrubs and a washing line.

The removals men set to with gusto and great endurance. Suddenly, they wanted decisions about furniture, unmarked boxes, things I didn’t recognise…

At long last the final box, package, bag, carton or crate had been brought indoors. The big bedroom wasn’t just full of stuff; it was completely rammed, and it took an hour’s hard slog to move things around sufficiently to get into the room. Meanwhile, my bed and desk were in place; the shelving units were there and the chest of drawers packed with crocks, spice racks and packets of soup was ready to be pressed into a new realm of service as a clothes storage unit.

After a while, it was time for me to be on my own with my new place. There was so much to do, but I was hugely tired.

So, a few days later, I rediscovered the floor of the big bedroom and managed to get all the boxes to range around the edges, which meant I could put some things away in the cupboards and start to sort things out.

But the quantity of crates rammed with books, CDs and DVDs means that I can’t get them out of the way until the bookcases arrive. Meanwhile, the washing mounting up, and the washing machine installation men haven’t yet come. My broadband is ordered and booked for plugging up, but not yet. The new sofa is on order and paid for, but might not be here until the end of March, according to the small print.

That said, I keep tripping over essential everyday things, like my collection of Dinky Toys and large numbers of back issues of various magazines and periodicals. The number of times I’ve checked one particular box in case my nice boots are in there, only to be reminded that this is the one with empty bottles in bewilders me. My system of writing on the carton once I’d put things inside it almost works, except that I can’t read my writing, and when I work it out by examining the contents, I keep noticing that I’ve been less than diligent in listing everything inside each box. And many seem to a be something of a Jamboree Bag.

There’s so much else; voyages of discovery to church meetings and to visit friends; being picked up and taken to fellowship gatherings; having a go at walking to a friends’ home, only to discover that the route I selected, while efficient in it’s way, failed to take into account a road built more recently than the publication date of my map – a road which shortens the journey by about a mile… Then there’s Bus route 29, which takes me from here to a decent shopping street with a good selection of stores; I’ve yet to discover how to get to other places. I suppose I need a good reason to go there, and I’ll be willing to make the effort.

I’ve been invited to get involved with so many things already, which is brilliant. I feel I’m making new friends (or at least meeting people who will probably turn out to be friends in the longer term).

There is sometimes the heavy aroma of burning boat about the place, but that’s only to be expected. God has called me to this place; it’s now his call to lead me in the path everlasting, and to direct my activities from here. I know what I might do, and I know what some of my strengths are. But maybe he has some changes up ahead for me, as well as some things with which I’m familiar…

As witnessed by millions

On the Sports Personality of the Year show tonight, the winner was trying to find a collective term to describe the child of his sister. So he had to turn the sentence around and describe him self as someone who had 'just become an uncle' which covers the relationship irrespective of the gender of the child (nephew or niece). Yes, he admitted eventually that his sister had given birth to a little girl, and that therefore she was his niece. And it would have still been his neice even if his sister-in-law had given birth. And, given the way some folks carry on these days, the actual wearing of a ring or ownership of a licence is immaterial.

But that's my point.

There is no accepted word for such offspring.
Consider the following options.
One's first Grandchild/Granddaughter/Grandson
One's first child/daughter/son
One's first nephew/niece BUT there isn't a generic term.

That's why I have been campaigning (okay, fairly quietly) for Sibskid as that term. My sibling's kid, geddit? It's friendly, easy to use, applies equally to boy or girl born of sister or of the seed of brother without argument, and is easy to remember (which is why it beats SibsSpring, which is harder to say, or NéeBoth, which is arguably more etymologically excusable).

Let me know what you think, unless you disagree.

Disappointing

Book Reviews:
Blink by Ted Dekker
Black by Ted Dekker
West Bow Books (a division of Thomas Nelson)

I’ve been reading a manuscript for a dear friend recently, and have had to apply some rules for this as she’s just learning the skills and techniques required. She has a good story and a good way of approaching it, but struggles a little with writing believeable dialogue, with maintaining the point of view and with developing character.

But it’s such a promising story idea that I’m prepared to point these weaknesses out in a gentle way. Indeed, in order to encourage in her the grace she shows in receiving my comments, I have asked her to read my recent manuscripts, and I’ve been hugely enriched by the story ideas she’s suggested to improve them.

One of the key lessons I’ve learned about reading the Bible is the principle of approaching with Ontological Hermaneutic Presupposition (impressive, eh?). This simply means that we assume the Bible writers are correct, and that any weirdness or plot discrepancies are a function of translation, inaccurate reading or a misunderstanding of God.

For example, where Luke mentions in 24:15 that Jesus approached the two men making their way to Emmaus, we should not assume (as we might if it were not the Bible we were reading but the flawed manuscript of a storyteller) that the writer has forgotten that his character Jesus had died in the previous chapter, and therefore couldn’t be there.

In the case of Scripture (once we have ensured reliable translation), we read carefully and then bring faith to the party. This must mean that Jesus isn’t dead. So is this a flashback? No, not according to verse 1, which sets the incident in its timeframe: Easter Sunday. So what has happened?

Well, obviously, other scriptures back up the slow-dawning theory that Jesus has been raised from the dead. Eventually, we come to clear statements such as v34 and then v46, and it’s starting to make a bit more sense: the problem is that we had too small a view of God, and failed to believe him when he promised to send his Son to die and be raised to life on the third day…

However, and it’s an huge however (practically an HOWEVER), Ted Dekker cannot hide behind this sort of approach. He’s a flawed human being (he won’t deny it) and has, despite what they may tell him, a deeply flawed publishing editor.

Despite the claim that ‘Ted Dekker’s novels deliver big mind-blowing, plot-twisting page turners’, both of these books utterly disappointed me.

Blink is supposed to draw on breathlessly fabulous themes of science fiction, wrapped inside an enigma which unravels at breakneck pace… oh let the publisher gush: ‘An intoxicating tale set amidst the shifting sands of the Middle East, Blink touches on geopolitical conflicts as ancient as the earth itself. The page-turning plot follows a Saudi Arabian princess fleeing a wretched forced marriage for the promised land of America. A brilliant American graduate student discovers a mysterious power – giving him glimpses into the future. Thrown together, they become pawns in a struggle for power and must manipulate the very future in order to save themselves. In his most riveting novel to date, Dekker brings the story to a dramatic climax that will change the future of fiction in the blink of an eye.’

A pseudo-spiritual prophetic gift is the cheap (and over-used) deus ex machina plot device that helps the 2-dimensional good guy rescue the damsel in distress, and they both discover things about God that we knew years ago. If this were didactic fiction, it would fail as it’s not all that insightful. It’s not spectacularly evangelistic, and the pot-boiling story is predictable. The poor quality of the writing left me annoyed, and the characterisation failed to happen. This book changes exactly nothing... the future of fiction is likely to be impoverished if this chap produces much more, unless someone is honest enough to tell him the truth.

Black describes itself as a novel, but actually it’s the throat-clearance of a trilogy.

Brace yourself: Blackness is symbolic of evil, which is the sort of racist issue that I thought we’d eliminated in the fifties. Our ‘hero’ has a game-show Gladiator name (Thomas Hunter) but keeps falling asleep, which provides him with a gateway to the past (or is it the future?). This is the breath-taking science fiction, folks. What a crock! He gets confused between beautiful girls in each of the realities he visits, and has to battle insurmountable odds against the clock, which he does with impassive stolidity.

Once again, a fairly promising story idea gets mangled in the plot-driven action, as I failed utterly to engage with any of the characters.

And it's so not a novel. The last few pages fail utterly to resolve any of the plot threads or even deliver an anti-climax, so it's just a set-up for the sequel. Hugely irritating once I'd ploughed through so much grey text to get there, and still am left with our hero in trouble, our heroines pretty-much unkissed (despite the poor writing that suddenly made me believe one of them must be immaculately pregnant) and our enemies still in the ascendency. I know some people find this sort of stuff exciting and neeeeed to devour the next installment as soon as possible, but it left me deeply unimpressed and not really bothered.

This isn’t science fiction at all – not if Phillip K Dick or Kurt Vonnegut or Isaac Asimov or even Douglas Adams are to be considered in that genre. And it’s so sub-Christian it lacks any edge or worth in that field, as well. All you end up with is a religiously-tangential adventure yarn populated by people about whom you care not one whit. Reminded me a bit of The daVinci Code, which I hope is understood to be a serious put-down.

0.5 out of 5 leonandys

And another thing...

Third in a series on noticing stuff when you should be concentrating

As I approached the CCK church building in good time for the early morning prayer time today, I noticed a small puddle of liquid on the pavement. Scattered around this was the remains of a glass bottle; an extra virgin olive oil bottle. The tell-tale aroma wafted mouthwateringly and I wondered if someone had dropped their shopping and lost this precious liquid.

Then my imagination kicked in and I started to see it as perhaps the detritus from a failed torching attack on the church building from some sexually abstinant macrobiotic-wholemeal/health/fairly-traded pressure group who had made a feeble sub-Molotov Cocktail... (Molot-olive Cocktoil?)

But in the end it seemed more likely it was the last remaining evidence of members of an highly over-spiritualised hit & run squad, who had been participants in some bizarre drive-by attempted healing service.

No news is bad news

Mssrs Hurry, Up & Wait, solicitors

Dear Sir

our ref
000002343/AN9U56565D/k00008/s5d7e逧"expensive"/
459734222222222/a/ccFb

Thank you for yours of the 12th ult.

Sign this at your earliest convenient return of post, enclose cheque for several hundred pounds and then we'll go really quiet again for a few weeks, until the next form with lots of small print has been prepared by our office Junior, who has been appointed chief executive of Squew-Whiff Photocopying & Uneven Folding.

We remain your humble and faithful servants

Yrs Faithfully
pp (illegible scibble)
Conv A Ensing
Senior Partner

Oh, it's not so bad. But I'm champing at the bit, learning lot about patience (good quality) which quicks leads to passivity (not so good), and the opposite dangers of proactive firmness (good quality) which can lead towards anger (not so good, especially if you sleep on it).

It's a right old balancing act, this obeying God malarkey.

The lovely comments, encouraging prayers and vivid prophecies keep on coming, and it's those which help me stay focussed. My moving day has come and gone and I'm still here. I'm praying for the glorious 12th (not to go gouse-shooting, but to remove my belongings to my new home), as it seems that further delay will find everyone taking their Chistmas break while I'm still living with boxes and uproar and 'maybe' and unsettled and not in the city and church God has been calling me to join since June.

That can't be right, can it?

And so it continues, both day and night

How wonderful to be surrounded by friends!

I hoped this was going to happen; I would have been hurt if it didn't. But the reality of leaving this church (CCK) and this town (Brighton) is beginning to come close.

Before, it was a wild, adventurous concept, but when you spend the day dealing with Removals Firms and sendng cheques to solicitors and seeing an Estate Agent and then go to a meeting when folks spontaneously gather around you and start prophesying and having brilliantly vivid and perceptive pictures for you, it all gets a bit certain!

Having expressed my alarm about the amazing garden at Corn Mill Close, and also having had a meeting with Jonathan Bell, the elder overseeing Church Central in Birmingham...
A dear friend had a picture of a tree or shrub which was mature and precious being gently uprooted and prepared for transporting. The roots were wrapped in cloth, with the right amount of soil. It was then taken to a space perfectly landscaped to be the best place for the tree to flourish and play its part; a space set aside with that particular tree in mind.
While he was sharing, I could see those shrubs in the new back garden...

People are great, aren't they? They express their gratitiude and love and faith and admiration and it's truly the activity of the family of God.

There are days when this huge change in my life seems too much; there are other days when I can't wait to be in my new house, sorting out furniture and bookcases and establishing myself in the place God has carved out for me.

But there are also days when
Nothing much
Seems to be happening or
Seems to be stirring within, either.
Living in the promise is an uncomfortable place.
Things that will be are not yet;
Things that are now over tarry.
Meaningful friendships take on greater meaning;
Future friendships will bring great joy but currently are on hold.
Opportunities beckon but hurdles intervene;
Hurry up and prepare for further delay.

Lord, grant me patience, keep me keen, stir my vision, encourage my obedience, speed my solicitors, help my unbelief, bolster my flagging excitement, calm my nerves, help me enjoy the process, remind me to live in the present.

Update 2

I'm starting to think that my Estate Agents go from their office into their staff room to salivate over a cork notice board with a big headline This Week's Sale, and a photo of me underneath it. They make me feel like Royalty.

Good afternoon, Mr Back, have a seat, cup of coffee, packet of Plain Chocolate HobNobs, please wipe your shoes on my expensive suit, can I mop your brow with this old copy of Property News?, oh do have some cake or I could peel you a grape or two?, please be aware that we may be letting off Party Poppers in a moment (we wouldn't want to make you jump with the sudden noise!), thank you for breathing oxygen in the same building as us, take care since we would not want you to trip upon these palm fronds and rose petals our receptioniste is strewing before your path, may I prostrate myself before you?, please receive these flowers/certificates/shredded overstock of Mortgage Application Forms, and thank you, thank you, thank you.

Anyone would think I was the only source of income they had for this week.

And they may very well be right.

Be that as it may... 4

H'mmm. Fireworks night, eh?

I have many times wondered about the wisdom thereof. So many injuries, disfigurements, opportunities for people to hurt themselves (and, more importantly, each other); it's expensive, trivial, momentary, intrusive for those who would prefer not to have vast explosions of extreme volume rending the night sky (which may be many parents of small children, come to think of it) and almost impossible to police to prevent careless folks bending breaking and ignoring the safety procedures, leading inexorably to a desensitisation about the dangers of playing with fire.

But these are the least of the issues. Much more important, imho, and fundamental is the whole rationale behind November the Fifth and what it celebrates.

We think of the political activist Guy Fawkes and his colleagues in the cellars under the House of Parliament, plotting with their barrels of gunpowder to kill the king when he came into the chamber. But they were discovered, arrested, tried, convicted and sentenced to... death by burning at the stake. H'mm yes, that's our history folks. We used to do that to people. The English way was to treat our political dissidents with brutal forms of execution. It should be something to be ahsamed about, like our historic involvement in unjust wars, piracy, the slave trade, shocking treatment of children and women and the poor and the mentally ill...

No, we don't ritually make a public humiliation and spectacle of those who challenge our institutions these days. (In some cases, we rejoice and make merry over 'celebrities' immoral choices to have a family of children outside of marriage, to have serial lovers, to behave irresponsibly with drugs or booze or - but that's another topic, really). Anyway, some might argue that the pendulum has swung too far towards care and kindness, seeking to get the criminal and the psychopath back into society as quickly as possible.

Yet we set aside time, money and rational thinking to celebrate the barbarity of our long-extinct laws of execution by a seriously cruel method. No, we don't have a Drinking Hemlock Week or a Hanging by the Neck Until Dead Afternoon; perhaps these are not adequately spectactular. But we do gather up combustibles into a pile, shove a dummy on top and make a great family night from the savage punishment meted out to this man who. after all, would probably have voted LibDem, if he had been given the opportunity, commenting on the authority of the monarchy and being disapproving of the two-party system.

And don't get me started on Lewes, and the way they do things there.

But it's a great evangelistic opportunity, Andy, they tell me. Harrumph, is all I answer. Surely we should have had our big party the week before, inviting families up and down the avenue to sit around dressed as characters who populate the occult - ghosts, skellingtons, ghoulies, the undead, evil spirits, witches, warlocks, elves, hobgoblins and all things demonic, while sending the children out to break with the general rules and for one night only to talk as many strangers as possible, to beg, to accept gifts from unknown and unsupervised grown-ups and stay up late, wandering about, and to provoke nightmares and fear and nasty surprises...

There's something wrong here, surely, with both of these dangerous 'opportunities'.

Evangelistic events should be focused on fun, friendship, conversation, food, civility, times of appropriate celebration (may I tender the following ideas: Christmas, Easter, start of the school holidays, birthdays, anniversaries - let those whose marriages last make a fuss about it, I suggest - exam results, homecomings, harvest, housewarmings, weddings, births, christenings & dedications, baptisms, etc etc).

Let celebration be restored to things worth lauding. For goodness' sake.

A Psalm of grateful thanks to God

Psalm 20
For the director of music. A psalm of David

1 May the Lord answer you when you are in distress; may the name of the God of Jacob protect you.
2 May he send you help from the sanctuary and grant you support from Zion.
3 May he remember all your sacrifices and accept your burnt offerings.

4 May he give you the desire of your heart and make all your plans succeed.
5 We will shout for joy when you are victorious and will lift up our banners in the house of our God. May the Lord grant all your requests.

6 Now I know that the Lord saves his anointed; he answers him from his holy heaven with the saving power of his right hand.
7 Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the Lord our God.
8 They are brought to their knees and fall, but we rise up and stand firm.

9 O Lord, save the King! Answer us when we call!

More about my new home...

Counting Chickens? Maybe, but I feel very confidant

The current appearance of the 21' lounge, showing the long, useable dining area and double patio doors to the back garden.

I can't say the regency stripes are really me; and the 3-piece suite doesn't exactly float any vessels of any kind. Good job that's not included! I find the huge fire place a little grand, also.

There's obviously a kitchen, which is a good size 9'7 x 8'3, plus two storage rooms and a downstairs wc.

Here's the master bedroom, complete with frilly bedlinen and floral curtains... H'mm. Perhaps something more manly is required.

But the room's a good size 12'7 x 9'9 and has those handy fitted cupboards. The other bedrooms are 11'6 x 11'5 (square, without chimney breasts or funny extrusions) and a very useable single 11'11 x 6'10.

At this stage, I'm planning to rent out the Master, leaving the square room as an office and having the single room for myself.

There's also a bathroom, with a separate wc.

Ah, now, the garden...

H'mm, looks like some serious hard work has gone on here, and (much more alarmingly for this first-floor-flat-dweller), will be required in days to come. Anyone know a decent gardener? But the patio certainly looks like an option for barbeques or maybe, in time, a hot tub.





One of the most attractive features of this property is that rather than the current deal of £50-odd per year for a Residents' Parking Permit which entitles you to go and park somewhere else because all the spaces near your home are occupied already, this house is in a quiet close with plenty of opportunities for vehicles to be left unattended.

Be that as it may 3/3

It's been fun trying to get a leaving do organised.

21st November 2008 at 7.30-10pm at the Clarendon Centre,
New England Street, Brighton
All welcome; please bring a bottle to share; light refreshments available.

So far 50 people have confirmed, and there's still a month to go! I'm getting the mesage; my time in CCK has carved a big hole with my name on, and I shall be missed. I know I'm not irreplaceable, but it's great to know I'm not instantly forgettable.

Update

And the news at the end of the day is that I have made an offer which has been accepted, and I've accepted an offer on my flat. So let the solictor two-step begin!

I was brought up in Old Mill Close; now I am looking to buy a house in Corn Mill Close

And so we go to DefCon 2, as my offer is being considered and the offer on my flat in Brighton awaits my approval or otherwise. I really don't want to accept an offer before I've had mine accepted, and I didn't dare make an offer until there was one on the table for me...

Anyway, my inner turmoil is gaining pace, and my bowel has issued the command 'Abandon Ship!' as I continue this walk of obedience, faith and expectancy. It was a good week in Birmingham, and there will be many many more if this property falls into my clutches! This is actually a house, people, and if all goes to plan it means I get the things on my Must Have list:

1 Up for Sale
2 Sensible Price
3 Electricity
4 Windows
5 Sensible-shaped rooms.
All boxes ticked, present & correct, so far.

Then there's my How Wonderful It Would Be To Have Because I've Never Had These Things Before list
1 Own Front Door
2 No-one In the Flat Above
3 Window to the Bathroom (Natural Light)
4 All Self-Contained within the Dwelling
5 Loft Space for storage etc
This place is most excellent in every regard.

Bringing up the rear comes the Sensible Things I'd Quite Like But Could Manage If It Wasn't Quite Up To Muster list (known in the trade as the Be That As It May list)
1 Three bedrooms (lodger, office, me)
2 Downstairs loo
3 Upstairs Bathroom
4 Driveway or Fairly Guaranteed Parking within 100yds
5 Double Glazing
6 Central Heating
7 Back Garden (with Patio/decking if poss)
8 Access to the Rear (yes, considering a cycle, you see)
9 No Major Building Work Required Immediately
10 Livewithable Decoration.
And again, it's a full score. 10/10. 100%

So while the lounge is carpetted (I'd wonderered about this wood-effect flooring you youngsters have these days) and the back garden is rather a lot bigger, tidier and likely to turn into a jungle/thicket/wadi at what feels like a moments' notice than I might have preferred, and the downstairs loo is a touch on the primitive side, everything else is hugely up to spec.

That's the brilliant thing: I don't care about proximity to nursery schools, having the preferred small kitchen/big living room arrangement (so many have the vast kitchen/diner/family room with a tiddly living room set-up); I could cope with a downstairs bathroom or shower-room if there were loo-style facilities upstairs as well...

But the Truly Excellent Bonus Issues are as follows:
1 In a quiet Close
2 Close to lots of other ChurchCentral members
3 Cat-Swingng options
4 Two spits from a lovely park with grass & trees and fresh air
5 No Chain

So as you may be able to tell, I'm quite excited about this particular joint. Please join me for a brief moment of refection, thanking God for his kindness, mercy and love in helping me find a most excellent place. And all this is before the verbal offer bit is done and dusted, so I know there's a long way to go and the possibility of a slip... but in my search I've really been keen on two others, yet every time the next one I like has been superior to the one for which I was previously going to settle.

Watch this space!

Be that as it may

Privet Lives
(with acknowledgements to Jerome K Jerome)

Have you ever been in one of those real-life mazes, with tall hedges? You know there is a middle, and that’s what you’re trying to find, but no matter which way you turn, you keep discovering a dead-end (which, you suspect is the same dead-end every time).

After about an hour, you come across some people who look like they know what they are doing. ‘Three turns to the left and then one to the right. Follow that pattern and this maze is easy!’ they say to each other in a self-congratulatory tone. But when you sneakily follow them, a few paces behind, you discover some tough truths. The method they are using doesn’t work (mostly because after the third left turn they are facing a dead end, with no right turn or left turn). When they realise their method doesn’t work, they improvise randomly, and end up in the same dead end that you’ve been finding every 30 seconds for the last ten minutes. Ho hum.

In your despair, a child of three comes up to you and offers to take you to the middle for 20p. You pay up gladly, but the child disappears through a tiny hole in the hedge behind you. The hole is too small for you to follow, and suddenly you are both lost and diddled. You rush about, fired with a new motive (to find the little child and demand your money back) and accidentally stumble upon the middle of the maze with a surprised look on your face. You quickly recover your composure, and allow a smile to play over your lips, as if you planned all this and have simply strolled round this ‘ridiculously easy’ maze with confidence.

Having reached the middle, you sit down for a rest. You don’t know how you got there, and you know there’s very little chance of ever finding the way out. You begin to resign yourself to spending the rest of your life in this maze (or at least having to wait until closing time, when you hope a friendly park keeper will escort you to the exit). Then three of your friends arrive, with ice creams, having ‘done’ the maze four times already, grown tired of waiting for you to join them, and gone off to get refreshments, and then come back to see where you are.

You are so pleased to see them, and you follow them blindly as they confidently lead you towards the middle again. ‘Funny that,’ says one of your friends. Not that funny. ‘I was sure I knew how.’ After five more futile attempts to find the exit, which always end up back in the middle, you realize that your friends are using the three left, one right method. You suggest that on the way out, shouldn’t that be three right, one left? ‘Of course!’ they say, and you set off with renewed hope and return three more times to the middle.

Feeling hopeless and foolish, you pay the small child once again (his price for finding the exit is £1 per person per trip, because he’s a smart kid), and emerge from the maze 45 seconds later. The small child has pocketfuls of coins, you notice, and consider briefly either

a) mugging him or

b) following him, learning the route and setting up in competition.

But you are foot weary, and slightly claustrophobic from high hedges. You are enjoying allowing your eyes to focus on the middle and far distance much too much to return to the narrow corridors of the privet trap from which you thought escape was impossible.

In the parables Jesus told, the lost sheep was lost like you in the maze - hopelessly unable to find its way back to the fold. And the lost son was lost like you in the maze, as well - despairing of ever returning to his home, on account of bad decisions and foolish choices. But Jesus' parables encourage us that even when we are lost, despairing, feeling cheated and yet responsible for the state in which we find ourselves, he came into this world to rescue us by his a-maze-ing mercy (1 Timothy 1:15)

© 2002 Children's Ministry

and another thing...

Second in a series on noticing stuff when you should be concentrating

Why, oh, why do they cone off a lane or a small section of a busy road when they're not working on it? I wouldn't be so frutrated about the delay of getting two lanes of heavy traffic into one (three if you count the bus lane, which, when there's a bus in it, I do) if there were a big hole in the ground or a bunch of navvies leaning on their shovels or sitting in a little tent having a brew-up. But when it's what appears to be regular, unblemished tarmac... I can imagine the conversation in the borough engineer's office:
'That's a nce stretch of road surface; let's make sure it doesn't become worn or spoiled by all those nasty cars, lorries, vans and buses.'
'But won't that mean some people are getting less road use from their Road Fund Licence fees?'
'Yeah, but hey, this bit of road will be nice for a wee while longer. That's good value!'

While you're there, can we talk about cycles and cyclists and cycle lanes? They now get special lanes set aside for their use, with garish red surfaces, often, with lots of additional white paint designating them for cycling only, using half the carriageway and causing additional wear to the bit that is left for the cars, lorries and vans. Yet they pay no road fund licence, despite all the extra cost to everyone else. And don't give me all that guff about green, because you will quickly find that the red tarmac and white paint aren't especially friendly to the enviroment, and the encouragement of people in lycra with those silly helmets hardly beautifies the surroundings. It can be having very little effect on the pollution issue, as the number of people who have the option to choose to cycle rather than drive can be limited. Mothers with children, anyone shopping, all commercial vehicles, folks intending to travel further than a couple of miles or up a hill or two will choose to drive, won't they? That just leaves the athletes, the loopy city-biking communters (who are exploiting the environment with electric-intense trains, mostly) and the tiny minority of green ex-drivers.

Let's get the cycles off the road, or let them pay for the huge benefits they receive at the hands of a mis-judged policy. And don't get me started on number plates for cycles, who ride with impunity on the pavement, past the No Cycling signs on the seafront, the wrong way on one-way streets and (worst crime of all) with no lights. And they don't have to fork out for insurance for the times when they have their accidents, which are bound to happen, they way some of them expect all cars to see them as they emerge from the gloom, dressed in dark clothes...

Be that as it may

Off to London today to drive the lights and sound for the last run of my involvement with Second Impression Theatre Company.

David Weedal & I started our association in 1993, working on skethes and short pieces for Church events and meetings (with Jojo Cole and Rachie Fell). These developed (as Second Impression Theatre Company) into full plays for the Brighton Festival in 1996 with the first performance of Elephant Man 2095, starring Phil Bint in full make up, with the cast including both David and myself, plus Sophie Yule and about 130 others, or so it felt.

This good start led to a play every year in the Brighton Festival, with a second run in the autumn.

Top memories for me in various shows include Elephant Man 2095 my big scene as Harry Voss, the wicked showman who trades Merrick; Harry the would-be lover with ingrowing toenals in GSOH; Peter the skipping, sheep-like Aussie trapped in a cult (with the lovely Sophie Yule as Rita, my sidekick) - In Bed with Harry - also starring Michelle Chalmers; and the huge fun we all had in Slowly Going Under when my character persuades one of the women to indulge in a little loud off-stage sauciness. Perhaps the most memorable acting came in Out of the Darkness, again with Michelle Chalmers, as my OCD-driven inmate of the mental institution pathetically explains his compulsions and requests her assistance. And some of the most enjoyable moments were when my character Luigi, the Tomato Magnate, became enraged at the saleman who went off-topic.

Interspersed have been shows when my role was Assistant Director, chief provider of laughs, lights man, effects man, sound man, or sound & lights and effects man. I learned so much from David and from the vast numbers of wonderful actors with whom we have worked. Perhaps you may gauge my standard when you consider that my best bit of directing came when the sad old boy living in the guest house belonging to The World's Last Landlady was wearing a cardigan, and I suggested it would emphasise the haphazard nature of the character if he were to button it up incorrectly. Maybe only a few people noticed, but I believe it helped the actor to some degree.

And I won't forget the night when David tried to make his exit in a blackout at the end of the first act of Private Laughter, missed his footing and fell from the 4' high stage into the pit below, where he lay injured, unseen until the house lights came on and the audience had drifted out to the bar. There are several other incidents I could mention, but I'd start to get a bit lovvie-dahling, so I won't trouble you.

Tonight (and until Saturday) it's sound & lights at the Etcetera Theatre, Camden, for 007 - My Other Life, a Bond spoof with important questions, pretty girls, an evil baddie and about 300 cues to cope with, all in the world's smallest, hottest sound/light booth with a restricted view of the stage - what's the point of that?

Break a leg!