The Sony E-Reader

In order to take enough books on holiday without bursting her hand luggage, Mrs M purchased a Sony e-Reader last year. I warned that her holiday reading would be devastated by dropping the device in the pool, whereas my book would dry out by the next day and in the meantime I could start another. 'Technophobe' she chanted.

She failed to drop the device in the pool and enjoyed reading on holiday last year and this. 117 free books came her way as a bonus. Shortly after returning from holiday the on/off switch of the Reader began to feel a little strange, then loose and then stopped working altogether. A minor fault but annoyingly two months out of warranty.

She contacted Sony who charge £176 for all e-Reader repairs. This compares to the current £179 cost of a new device. 'Blow that for a game of soldiers' she would have said if she said that sort of thing and took the Reader back to John (never knowingly undersold) Lewis. 'Ah' said a helpful, assistant. 'We probably could fix that easily but Sony won't release their parts to us so you have to send it back to them.'

So, dear Sony, I am advising my friends, family and lurkers not to buy one of your products and to purchase a different sort of electronic reading system. They tell me Amazon's Kindles are OK and so are i-pads. Hope you don't mind.

Get Back in the Box - Part 2

It's been two days now and I need to confess. Be ready with the absolution please brothers and sisters.

I wrote this last Sunday morning. If you didn't read it you need to do so now for the rest of this post to make sense.

By 8.25 a.m. I had got my head together and my musical instruments and papers ready for transport to church. I was cutting an orange into neat segments with a Motown backing track. The 'phone rang.

Early Sunday morning 'phone calls are never good.

'Hello Steve; aren't you supposed to be at Christ Church?'

Now my reply was obvious, 'No.' If I was meant to be at Christ Church I would have been at Christ Church. That's what I do. I check the rota. I'm supposed to be at Christ Church. At 8.30.

So while I shout a few instructions about the transport of electric pianos to the human battery who is my partner (she's ever-ready) I wash, dress, grab a lectionary (don't ask), drive two miles and arrive so that by the time of the epistle I have sneaked in the vestry door and am trying to work out what sort of service I have arrived at in order to preach and preside.

It's either CW2 or CW2 (contemporary). I read the Gospel. In my pause for breath David (the Reader who has coped with part 1) announces the creed. Modern(ish) language. So it must be CW2 (contemporary) then.

I stand. I am wearing the robes of a taller man. My radio mic receiver falls off my belt and I can't find a gap in the cassock through which to recover it. I try harder. I look like I'm no stop don't go there.

A sermon. Hmm. I think I praised the idea of preaching without preparation from time to time, a few posts back. That'll teach me. Still, if I can't preach on humility having been taken down a peg or ten by forgetting a whole congregation, when can I preach that? I segue through forgetfulness, manners and end up in Philippians 2 and the one who emptied himself taking the form of a servant. It's OK but perhaps a few minutes over-long. Sorry I preached a long sermon; I didn't have time to preach a short one, to paraphrase Mark Twain on letter-writing.

Somewhere my memory finds the skills necessary to stand in the right place to receive collection, offer absolution and perform consecration.

I think the great computer crash of three weeks back has its first real victim - an email taking me up on the offer to be available today if necessary. If I'd checked the rota I'd have known that.

I apologise to everyone as they leave. No-one is unkind.

Within twenty minutes, having consumed the fruit I was preparing to keep some sugar in the system, I am setting up a keyboard in order to lead musical worship at Trendlewood's all-age service. Poorly. Although I might have got away with it at the time, but I know.

I shaved and showered before heading off to my sister's for lunch where the Cotswold air and family vibe was totally cathartic.

Now it's Tuesday I can laugh. Hope you can. Twice in twenty six years I've forgotten a service. But I'm getting better. Last time I never made it at all. Still, mea maxima culpa.

Hello Starling

One of the noises from the past which never fails to deposit me somewhere else is the sound of nesting, brooding starlings. Autumn and winter early evenings in Birmingham City Centre and the starling-noise was unbelievable. Some time in the 1970s the City Council's pigeon removal methods also removed all the starlings and the place now has a different sound-track. I don't return often enough to have it on recall yet.

But starlings are congregational birds. Over the summer they raise young in smallish groups and then start getting together. On our estate we start to see five or six sitting together on TV aerials (remember those) and lamp-posts. Then they begin flying around together.

Yesterday, and despite the hype the Mustard estate is a small, suburban garden, twenty eight of them pitched up and started clearing the newly mowed lawn of leather jackets and the like. Good work. Most of them were transitional in colour; grey brown fluff merging with the delightful greeny-black yellow iridescence of their adult plumage. There have been large broods this year.

Fully clothed starlings are very beautiful. They've had bad PR if you think they are ugly, black birds.

And soon their displays of aerial mathematics in huge numbers over the Somerset Levels will attract sight-seers so fine is it.

Big up to the starlings.

Cricket as a Foreign Language

Cricket has moved up the batting order of the news and is now opening. But unless we are tuned in to cricket speak what are we to make of this sentence, from PM on Radio 4 this evening?

Investigations by cricket's governing body are continuing into the allegation that the Pakistani team bowled no balls deliberately during the final test match.

Hmm. Throughout England's first innings every delivery was an accident eh?

Get Back in the Box

A strange wakefulness overcame me this morning. A colleague's irritating voice from the past telling someone on the phone, 'That's the best thing to do.' A line from a Faith Brothers song I've been singing since surfing, 'I shall be released come Sunday.' Other voices compete for attention, none of them saying anything much worth listening to.

On Sunday mornings in the early hours my sub-conscious stretches into action and demands its chance to be a naughty boy. 'Go on, go on,' it says 'Skive church, You know you want to.'

Thing is, I don't think I want to. But I miss the opportunity to decide to go rather than have to.

Today is light. I am being a musician and a notice giver in one service. Volunteers are working harder than me. But if it wasn't for this one lovely, all-age act of Christian worship I would have had a six day mini-break. And it is not simply a matter of pitching up, playing and scarpering. When you're the vicar you have to be ready to be the vicar, even if you're just the piano player.

You will be asked about a forthcoming funeral, the programme for home groups this autumn, the coffee rotas, the delay in the youth workers appointment, and something you haven't anticipated. Newcomers may be in church and the usually brilliant meeters and greeters may miss them.

Which is why, although there is not much preparation to do, I am up early thinking and praying my way into the day and trying to tell myself to enjoy it and doubting my own ability. The charisma dial goes up to eleven, still. But it's a bit stiff today. Been nearly twenty six years now. Doesn't get any easier.

Faith Brothers

My favourite no-one-else-noticed band from the 1980s. Brighten up your Friday with this extended mix of Whistling in the Dark and wish it a happy 25th birthday. 'Dress your doubts in hopes new suit...'

Honey and Pistachio Cake

Caught the repeat of Jamie does Greece the other night and the recipe for a cake made with olive oil, semolina and Greek yoghurt sounded too ghastly to be true so I tried it. Have to say it is beltingly good. The honey, plus the juice and zest from an orange and a lemon give it a real sweet tang. And it ages well. Serve it warm as a pudding with strawberries and then later as an afternoon cake with a cuppa. Find the instructions in the excellent Jamie Does... book based on his travels.

One word of warning. For the price of 150 grams of shelled pistachios you could buy five cheap cakes. Maybe go easy on them.

That programme and book also provided us with our supper the other night - dressed greens on toast. The combination of toast, tomatoes, feta and wilted spinach is a winner.

Thanks Mr Oliver. Always a joy

Dr Spin

Mustard Seed Shavings welcomes Dr Spin, a new member of the team who will help us through the tricky business of the day's immigration debate. Welcome doc:

Dr Spin

Thank you. How can I help? 

MSS

Well it seems immigration is up. 

Dr Spin

Who told you that? 

MSS

The BBC 

Dr Spin

Ah, no they didn't. 

MSS

But I heard them say net migration is up 20%.

Dr Spin

See? 

MSS

See what? 

Dr Spin

Net migration is what you get by subtracting the number who go out (emigration) from the number who come in, immigration. What we have here is a steady rate of immigration and a lowering of the number who left the country. Immigration is actually down. 

MSS

Why are fewer people leaving the country? 

Dr Spin

Well if I was spinning this answer I'd say it's clear Britain isn't quite as broken as some people say it is, but the truth is a bit more complex. 

MSS

And that is? 

Dr Spin

The number of non-British citizens leaving the country stayed about the same - it dropped a bit - but there was significant drop in the number of Brits leaving. By the way some of the immigrants were returning Brits. 

MSS

So immigration is down and the number of people who previously immigrated now emigrating is roughly the same. 

Dr Spin

Yup. 

MSS

There was a lot of fuss over the last few years about seasonal and migrant workers coming here to gut fish and pick fruit. 

Dr Spin

Yeah, apparently back in the day you could get paid more for gutting fish in Scotland than being a doctor in Budapest. That's no longer true but it's still hard to persuade people to gut fish for a living. 

MSS

OK, so what about this massive rise in overseas students when our young people can't get to university with 4 A* grades? 

Dr Spin

Our universities are quite good and attract foreign students. These students have to pay and so setting the budget for a university involves taking into account as much foreign money as you can get in. It does actually make life easier for our own students, the places for whom are fixed by the government so no-one has 'taken their places.' 

MSS

So no need to panic? 

Dr Spin

Oh plenty of other reasons not to do with immigration, but no need for headlines such as this on the Sunday Sun web-site. It's scaremongering spin of the worst sort:

'Net immigration rose by 20% in 2009'

REM live

On a dreary afternoon I searched for warming songs on YouTube and came across this lovely contrast. REM perform Driver 8 at a small festival in Germany in 1985 and then at Madison Square Gardens in 2008.

Jesus on Wheels Summer Holidays in Rome and Crete

Many thanks to Roger and Sandie for taking JOW to some places he may have felt brought back memories. See him teaching on the beach, blessing the Pope's crowds, contemplating the sea and having a moment of quiet contemplation at an empty cross. Too profound for words. Next stop Greenbelt and then the Commonwealth Games in India. Anyone going to South America any time soon?

Autumn?

Is it me or...? No, I know it's me. It's always me but, to put it differently, which is awkward as I haven't exactly put it yet, is it cold? Do I idealise the past to remember that summer holidays were, in the 1960s, largely summery? Or have I simply summerised them? Get lost spell-checker it's a pun. But I'm sure my sister and I spent all of August playing in the garden and rain was a rarity.

I went out to the pub the other night and Mrs M (who wears a minimum of two layers from August to May inclusive) suggested that a short-sleeved shirt was not enough. As I am male and unable to take advice I proceeded out of the door.

At the pub my companions had chosen to sit outdoors and, as the evening wore on, put on the fleeces they had brought with them.

Now I don't really do cold. Which is to say that I know when it is a bit nippy but rarely feel it is unpleasant. Hot - now that's nasty, sticky and saps my strength. Cold is OK. But it was a bit parky that night and I admitted as much to my drinking companions (who agreed about summers past) and on my return (because I'm not so macho I can't admit to a woman that she was right).

This morning the world is still, there is decaying vegetation in the air (and it's not just that the kitchen bin needs emptying although it does) and the garden feels kind of transitional. I think autumn is breaking out earlier. September is one of my favourite months as I rejoice in the departing of hay-fever, sticky nights and flies in the conservatory. Let's not peak too soon world.

Will need to wear thicker T-shirts this week.

Security

I have had some calls from Orange over the last few days since I upgraded my phone. All these calls have begun with 'Is that Mrs ...' I was a little paranoid at first that the truth was getting out but call centre operatives rarely hear the first words uttered by the 'phone answerer so I forgive them. I am often tempted to say 'Yes' and see what happens.

So many years ago I have lost count, Mrs Mustard's mobile phone became mine when she was given a work one to use. We have never changed the contract details and she continues to pay the bill, bless.

All the operatives have asked when Mrs M might be in so they can ask her a security question. My explanation that she is never in has not put them off and they have continued to call at regular intervals at the specific time I have explained she is not available. It doesn't appear to have crossed their minds that she may be buried under the fireplace.

This afternoon I was asked if the account had been taken out for me and I said that it had. No secret that, after all. 'Then I must ask you a security question,' said the bubbly lass on the other end of the call. 'What sort of phone is it you have upgraded to?'

This was a terribly baffling security question but I did what any self-respecting 'phone thief would have done and LOOKED AT IT.

'It's a Nokia X6,' I said.

She complemented me on having a lovely phone and proceeded to try and sell me the insurance I had declined on upgrading because my bank account already includes free phone insurance as does something else I can't remember.

Curse this demanding security everywhere.

Reasons to be Cheerful

Nothing greater in the whole world than a list song (apart from Favourite Things from The Sound of Music, obviously) and here is the one against which all others will be judged. The late, lamented Ian Dury and his wonderful Blockheads perform Reasons to be Cheerful, Part III. Not a half bad guitar solo to end, either. I needed that.

Old Testament

Clayboy (old college friend Doug) has begun what looks like an interesting series of articles on reading the Old Testament. He will keep each one as short as two sides of A4 but within that confine try to help us to see the Old Testament readings in church as a part of a whole story. Whilst many of my readers attend churches where only one reading is used each time I still hear complaints against the 'bloodthirsty God of the Old Testament' from time to time. Hopefully this is the sort of problem that will get addressed. The link is here.

Televison - the Drug of the Nation

I accidentally watched three minutes of Big Brother on Friday night. A lass who appeared to have been made out of the left-over bits from a self-assembly super-model kit was discussing her eviction. Dreadful, dreadful freak-show stuff.

It got me pondering about the goggle box. Increasingly I find myself watching DVD sets, currently The Wire and Mad Men, rather than 'live' TV. My habits have changed. Here is what I watched last week, as far as I can recall:

Mastermind
Celebrity Masterchef
The Championship
Grand Designs Revisited

I get my news headlines from the BBC web-site and news and comment from the radio so find TV news out of date if I've heard Today, the World at One, PM or the 6 o'clock news (and sometimes all of them). For discussion of the news I read a newspaper.

Whole days pass without the TV being switched on at all and then I use the catch-up service on the iplayer. Shame Match of the Day isn't available though.

I grew up in the 1950s and watched a 15 minute lunchtime children's programme on a black and white set. By the early 1960s I can recall there being two five o'clock programmes for children on weekdays. These were extended fifteen minutes earlier by Jackanory (a talking-head story-teller with illustrations) and by five minutes later with the Magic Roundabout slot.

As I grew older I was allowed to stay up to watch Thunderbirds (coining the phrase supermarionation for a puppet show) at 7p.m. followed by The Man from Uncle which ended at 8.50 and I had to go straight to bed.

Colour TV came to our house in 1972. On marrying, Mrs Mustard and I decided to do without a tele for a couple of years. It was a good decision and we had some fun evenings talking, or listening to BRMB radio (Robin Valk's rock show). I spent a month at my in-laws during the 78 world cup though. We got a tele, a dog, a cat and a son in the space of about six months in 1979/80. A video-cassette recorder wasn't available until about 1984 but I recall the joys of days off from my first curacy watching hired movies. I guess the next generation have no idea what it is like to 'miss' a programme.

But for the first 30 years of my life it was not possible to rearrange viewing time. You either watched or didn't. Being sent to your room and missing TV when I was a child was a real punishment. Apart from during occasional illnesses Mrs M and I have never had a TV in the bedroom and won't.

On my list of things to try and avoid these days:

All soaps
Any reality TV where reality consists of a mainly false environment
Any audience - elimination programme where you vote (which costs)
Anything with horses in it - racing, jumping, grooming or western
Situation comedy with a canned laughter track
Documentaries about surgery, weight loss or bodies being weird

But sensibly watched and carefully measured TV entertains, informs and keeps you company. My knowledge and skills base has been singularly improved recently by Time Team, Coast, Grand Designs and Masterchef. It's a long way from Rag, Tag and Bobtail.

Writing Skills

From time to time people (and it happened this week) ask me how I have time to write this stuff. I never really understand the question because it is my experience that we all find time for things we really like. How do you find time, for instance, never to miss East Enders, go to every Bristol City game (or the inclination) or read two novels a week? I know people who do these things. They find the time.

Secondly, how long do you think it takes? The ability to touch type and a mind full of pointless waffle attached to the loose ability to construct a vaguely readable sentence in largely recognisable English (this one is a bad example) is all you need. The cojones to feel that people will want to read what you write is a bonus.

The third thing, and it doesn't really apply to this blog but to other writing assignments, I read in Charlie Brooker's (he of Screen Wipe fame) Guardian column this week. You need a deadline. I don't particularly like work but, if cornered like a rat in a trap, will, if absolutely necessary, come up with the minimum required. So, when I was actually working as a freelance for four years I found the fact that people would pay me if I delivered stuff by a certain date a wonderful motivator.

It still works for the odd freelance task I take on and the blog-eponymous book comes out next year.

Brooker suggests that those wishing to finish say, a chapter of a novel, should set themselves a date and ask a good friend to guarantee that they will come round and administer a kicking in the previously mentioned if the deadline is not met. There's probably a female equivalent, confiscate the cakes perhaps, but finding it out would involve research and there are no women around to ask here tonight. Which is also why the house smells of curry and football.

So, how to write stuff, knocked off in twenty minutes before bed over a glass of wine. No need to kick me and for you the beauty is that this advice comes free. Unless you wanted to make a donation. Try The Trinity project. It's had most of my money so it may as well get yours.

My suggested donation for being generally amusing and entertaining over the years is a fiver for the Trinity Project.

Night night.

Stairway

Wonderful story from a source at CPAS (Church Pastoral Aid Society). The short cartoon video 'Stairway' tells the story of a couple bringing a child for baptism. It is a training tool for the church to use in visiting. A previous General Director apparently decreed that the female minister depicted by go-ahead CPAS back in the day, should be replaced by a man when the video was reprinted. This was done.

'What nobody knows' says my source, 'is that he is gay.' Priceless.

Zucchini Cakes

During the great courgette boom these little beauties have been good value. Grate three or four courgettes, cover with a little salt and leave in a sieve or colander to drain for a while. Press the last of the moisture out.

Meanwhile soften a few salad onions with a bit of garlic in a pan with some olive oil. Don't let them brown. Then add the grated courgette and some flour (which will soak up any remaining moisture) and keep going until the flour is cooked. Remove from heat and beat in an egg, chopped fresh dill and some crumbled feta cheese.

Add pepper (not salt as feta is salty enough), form into small cakes and shallow fry. Don't turn them until a cooked crust has formed on the bottom of each; they will be delicate. Serve with tomato chutney and crusty bread.

Thanks to Nigel Slater in The Kitchen Diaries, published by Fourth Estate.

Absolutely

One of the things writers are trained to do is to avoid word repetition. If you enjoy such an exercise you will probably make a good writer, if you are not scrawling already. So, for instance, having answered 'yes' to a question I will probably say 'that's right' if I need to affirm a positive a second time, followed by 'quite', 'indeed' or maybe 'correct.' It is also one of the reasons, I discover, why 'I love you' doesn't trip off my tongue as a mantra. Repetition, for me, robs things of their meaning unless done for narrative effect, so I prefer to find more interesting ways to affirm my devotion to those I care for. Which can be annoying. 'Absolutely.'

I was wandering around in this minefield of my own self-awareness as I awoke this morning. You still want to be me for a day? Thought not. And I recalled a question asked me by a woman following an evening service a few weeks back, after I had preached an, 'I won't tell you what to think; work out your own view,' sort of sermon.

'Do you believe there are absolutes?' she asked me.

Now a moment's thought will reveal the trap in this question for the budding relativist. 'There are no absolutes' is an absolute statement. There must be a minimum of one even if it is only 'It is not true to say there are no absolutes.'

You can't say everything is relative. As Nick Pollard once said, and probably wrote, 'I refuse to take this oncoming bus into my sphere of credibility,' is a recipe for disaster. It is best to act as if an approaching large vehicle will absolutely flatten you even unto death.

But you may survive the impact. It may brake. 'This bus will kill you' is not an absolute. 'This bus may kill you' is. But the introduction of the word 'may' to an absolute statement seems to leave us with some sort of a truism, not an absolute. An absolute must be true in all circumstances, must it not?

And are there paradoxical absolutes? For instance:

I absolutely believe in a woman's right to choose what to do with her own body.

I absolutely believe in the unborn child's right to life.

(Thanks to Paul Vallely for setting this one up in an article a few years back.)

So there are absolutes but working out what they are is a very complex, philosophical exercise. Descartes got to 'cogito ergo sum'. 'I believe therefore I am.' He worked out that he may be being deluded about everything else in the world but he could be in no doubt that it was he who was being deluded.

What tests might we use to find an absolute statement?

In his little book on Epistemology, David Wolfe suggests four tests for statements about knowledge which we can usefully apply to absolute knowledge:

Consistency (freedom from internal contradiction)
Coherence (internal relatedness to other assertions)
Comprehensiveness (applies to all experiences it describes)
Congruity (the statement works with the experience it describes)

So my death by oncoming bus is consistent (buses do kill). It is coherent (it fits with other related statements such as 'buses are heavy'; 'buses are fast', 'buses have a record in this area'). It is congruent (project the model and I look pretty flat). But it is not comprehensive. Survivors of bus impact are out there.

'This oncoming bus will kill me' fails as an absolute, but it is absolutely sensible to treat it as if it passes.

Ready for your cornflakes now?

Absolutely.

Shaggy Golf

The golfer was about to drive off when he noticed that a large bumble bee had landed on his ball, perhaps attracted by his new, smart, blue tee. His companion and playing partner yelled for him to stop and, bravely, took the bee and kept it on his hand while the shot was taken.

The ball flew straight and true but the tee travelled sideways and hit the companion smack in the eye. It gave him a nasty bruise but it didn't matter because:

Because...

Because...

(Are you there yet?)

The blue tee is in the eye of the bee holder.

Thank you. Good night.

Browser

The computer I have borrowed has non-Windows software loaded and, do you know, it's really rather good. I have no idea what the operating system is. I think it is a version of Linex called Ubuntu but the words Mozilla Firefox come up every now and again. Sounds like an Italian cheese dish with chillies. All PCs speak Klingon; discuss.

Anyway everything loads speedily enough, which is nice. It will print to my printer without too much trouble but won't dialogue with it so I don't know what the printer is saying any more. Had to change three ink cartridges before I'd got the right one. I can use my two email addresses online but can't access my back-up drive with old emails on it (hopefully I'll fix that on Monday).

So it seems to be a day full of hope and optimism. There was a nice weather window for a wedding at lunchtime and a football season full of hope beckons, ignoring the current score against Chelsea which isn't the place West Brom will be judged.

I've made a nice fish pie and Mrs M has made a summer pud. I've got The Wire series five left to watch although tonight we might do a Mad Men episode.

Little things make a Saturday happy. I shall change for dinner.

Booking an Appointment for Knee Examination

Although I can be a bit of an arse at times I think it would be fair to say that I am quite smart. Educated to degree level I was even a member of Mensa for a year a while back, until I was clever enough to realise that the company of people good at IQ tests was hell's waiting room itself.

So the three stapled-together sheets from NHS Somerset should not have been a problem:

First thing I read:

To book your appointment please call The Booking Management Service: (01278 ******)
(PLEASE IGNORE THE TELEPHONE NUMBERS ON THE APPOINTMENT REQUEST SHEET and the one given by healthspace when you are not able to book your appointment online)

To Book Via the Internet go to https://www.healthspace.nhs.uk/

So this is all before I get to the 'Dear Patient' bit. Something to ignore before I've read anything, an alarming random use of capitals, bold and text size and the introduction of a word 'healthspace' of which I have never heard.

Reading on I discover that phoning the Booking Management Service is indeed my first step but I will need to have my appointment request sheet (sheet two, although labelled sheet 1 of 2) and my password (sheet three, although labelled sheet 2 of 2) at hand.

I discover that when I choose and book the appointment (details on sheet two and, aha, here is a phone number I think I have to ignore) I can choose ONE of the following choices. I guess there are many people who choose to book two appointments and go to the earlier one but I am saved this ethical dilemma by only having one choice available in the box that follows. Here, in all its glory, is my choice:

Musculoskeletal Interface service - NSPCT - 5M841
MUSCULOSKELETAL INTERFACE SERVICE
Online booking for this service is not available

It is followed by the second telephone number I need to ignore.

When I pluck up the resolution to phone, the automated answering machine thanks me for calling Choose and Book, an organisation I am not aware of having phoned.

After a few holds and presses (probably the things that hurt my knee in the first place) I get through to a nice woman who tells me she can't book my appointment for this but I will hear from the clinic in a few days.

If this is the sort of thing that counts as waste then I am up for getting rid of it. What hope would you have if you were not smart?

I have now seen a nice doctor at the clinic, oops I mean interface service and have been diagnosed with a torn cartilage which I have three more weeks to exercise into submission before I get keyhole-scalpel work.

Continuing my work as a chaos-generator right now I can tell you there was a fire alarm while I was in the clinic.

I'll keep you informed.

Need to Know

In my enforced lay-off from the web this last ten days, or at least a severe curtailing of on-line activity, I have been pondering this question; what do we need to know?

Don't worry. It's not a question about the relative secrecy of the senior staff in the Church of England - the mushroom principle serves them well. Those unfamiliar with the mushroom principle need simply to consider - where are they kept and on what are they fed?

It is a question of information overload in 2010.

I have much respect for specialists. Those who devote their lives to the hibernation patterns of South Yorkshire mammals or the repair of Norman mortar impress me no end. But it is quite dificult to be a polymath these days. Stephen Fry is quite bright but he ain't Leibniz - possibly the last great thinker to put his mind to everything with aplomb.

Now I find this to be true. In any given week I can do one of the following: read well, relate well, keep up with the world of movies, or TV or music or perhaps move on in my grasp of technology a little. I cannot do them all in one week so act as a serial competent and try to restrict cultural conversations to the bits up-to-date with which I am culturally. Sentence structure hasn't been on the agenda for a few weeks.

I bought a GQ yesterday. It's the size of a novel but I now feel I am vaguely aware of men's fashion again (don't snigger). And I have a nice picture of Christina Hendricks, which wasn't the point but is a bonus.

So what about you? Specialist or generalist? And how do you keep up? Is it worth trying?

Thank You

Many thanks to those of you who supported me through last weekend in prayer. My back is fine again. The advice from the neuro-surgeon who treated me (without surgery) in 2001 was put into operation and meant a recovery from what was probably a small disc tear in a few days without bed rest. 'Backs are meant to move' was his advice. I commend it. One request. Please don't assume, at wedding party bops, that the non-dancers are all party-poopers. Some will be but others may be injured. Thanks girls for dragging me on to the dance floor; thanks Mark and Megs for choosing that moment to leave and saving me from exacerbating everything.

The PC Doc has pronounced that my computer has no infection and the problem may be hardware. This is good news for not losing data but bad news for the repair time scale. I am still picking up emails only once a day and am best contacted by phone. Another learning experience from the weekend is that if you happen to be sharing the toilet washing facilities with someone else, and you are discussing infections and viruses, make sure any newcomers who join you are aware it is computers that are being discussed. I'm just saying.

I have had a good week reading stuff in books when I would normally have been online. Karen Armstrong's The Bible; a Biography is fabulous.

My bedside book at the moment is A.A. Gill's Paper View. It is a digest of his Times' TV review columns. I regularly laugh myself to sleep.

Ethical Dilemma for our Times

There are two types of biscuit on offer. The ones with the most fat and chocolate are the fairly-traded ones. Discuss.

A First

In a bag of purchases from a fashionable Cheltenham boutique last Friday I discovered they had given me a free can of something called Red Bull Shot.

Now up until then I had never partaken of Red Bull in any form, shot or not. High on life, needs no artificial stimulants etc.

But I needed to know. So the other afternoon, just before my nap,  I did. My good freaky deaky upside downside up again spinny wide-eyed for mercies sake why the blimey concentrate blink blink blink read write TV cook cinema kappow things to do list shop read paper in my lady's chamber (is that a metaphor, I think we should be ...) God. What in the name of e-numbers have I done? I now contain so much sugar I think I could sweeten your coffee by walking near it.

Never, ever again.

Garden Birds and Pen Theft

Late last year we decided that we would record all the birds who visited Mustard Park during 2010. Occupants of Mustard Mansion enjoy gazing out of the window doing naff all and this was a way to make that produce some helpful research data.

A small notebook was purchased and a pen placed adjacent to same (agreeing that this pen would remain in place) and on January 1st we began. A few ground rules were established using RSPB criteria. Even if three sparrows fly away east one second before four arrive from the west you cannot count seven. You can only count the maximum of any species you see at any one time.

Species that spend most of their time in the air can be counted over the garden, as long as you can be sure what they are (swifts or housemartins easy; gulls difficult). We count gulls only if they actually land, which they will risk if they are hungry enough and there is bread on the lawn.

Enough ornithology. Why, why in heaven's name, do I get so completely uptight and pissed off when the pen is missing? Mrs M wants to know and after 37 years I believe she deserves a thought out answer.

I am a creative thinker. That's not bragging it's a style thing. I make no claim to be any good at it. This means I go off on thought-tracks from time to time and get distracted. It is not unknown for a trip upstairs to involve three trips - two to do something more interesting I thought of on the way up and the third to do whatever it was I wanted. As fellow sufferer Michael Stipe (again, I make no claims for creative similarity) says, 'This makes me a good song-writer and poor company at dinner parties.'

So, Mrs M knows that in our house when she wants a pen there will be a pen. She doesn't find it possible to ignore the nearest pen and, once taken, has no system for putting it back because there will always be a pen fairly near.

If I spot a bird and there is no pen I will, by the time I've found a pen, have forgotten I wanted it to write down the name of a bird and will be using it to plan a Bible study, write a potential blog-post or do a cross-word in the paper whilst boiling a kettle for a coffee break.

Either she leaves the pen alone or I become the tattooed, memory-loss guy off Memento. The decision is hers.

The Church, Christ and Christians

In the Guardian on Saturday there was a piece about author Anne Rice quitting being a Christian, a fact she apparently displayed on her Facebook page.

She is quoted as saying that in the name of Christ she refuses to be anti-gay, anti-feminist or anti-artificial birth control. Ah. A Roman Catholic Christian then, we deduce from the final anti. She also refuses to be anti-Democrat and anti-secular humanism, anti-science and anti-life. That's one crazy, mixed-up leaver friends, is it not?

She goes on to explain that she is not anti-Christ, nor indeed the Anti-Christ despite what some southern baptists seem to think. She simply cannot stand the company of Christians any more.

It is interesting how 'Christian,' once upon a time a nickname for a bunch of nutters who got Judaism wrong is now the name of a huge worldwide religious phenomenon which includes some nutters who get Christ wrong.

I reassert my desire to remain within whatever it is that is being described when we talk of the church and to affirm from within that I will do all I can to be Christlike to gays, women, scientists, condom wearers, Democrats and humanists. Which may include finding some of the things representatives of these groupings say, to be wrong.

She is right to say, as she does, that Christ is infinitely more important than Christianity but, once you exclude yourself from the fellowship of others who also believe he came that we might have life to the full, you either have to start a sect of the like-minded or be a solitary Jesus-follower, something the New Testament knows nothing of.

Anne, there's this little church I know, just down the road from where I live, where the vicar affirms all you affirm about Jesus, hates the word 'Christian' because of what it encompasses and will work until his last breath to redeem the word if he can. It may be a bit far to come every Sunday since I think you might live in the USA but...

Rev - some observations

A review of the just-finished TV comedy series Rev made it as far as the front page of the Guardian this week. One or two episodes of Rev attracted more viewers than some instalments of Big Brother (do people still watch that?) and certainly got people chatting. There is an excellent review on Bishop Alan's Blog so I won't cover old ground, especially when I'd do it less well.

Please note, sensitive readers, that it is going to be difficult to say what I want to say without saying some of the things Rev'd Adam said in the programme. So if you don't like the idea of a clergyman uttering the sentence 'I had a nice wank, thanks' then look away now.

First thing to note is that Rev was a comedy. It was also an intelligent comedy so it did not tell you when to laugh by dubbing on a fake laughter track. You had to make up your own mind if it was amusing. By and large it was chuckle not belly-laugh. Now you should know this, but comedy relies for its effect on showing things that do not normally happen. So we are shown Adam's wife desperately wanting intimacy with him by dressing as a prostitute; an archdeacon who always tips away any refreshment he is offered and who turns up almost daily, uninvited,  Adam getting rat-faced and trying to get off with an attractive head-teacher and a caricature of an evangelical sub-sect of the C of E with money to burn. As Bishop Alan says, it does not mean this happens but it can be how it feels to be isolated in urban ministry. Telling a bunch of rowdy builders to f**k off might feel good but most of us would hold back, aware of the repercussions. If we had reached the point where we couldn't control ourselves then taking off our dog-collar to do it might feel a bit unnecessary. But in a comedy, self-control is not what happens.

Secondly, this was well researched. Those who shared their stories shared well and were listened to. People do demand that their clergy are 'normal' and 'real' but don't mean it quite as it sounds. As Adam's friend Colin found when he told Adam, who he lovingly calls 'Vicarage,' that he could speak his mind and then became offended when he was told he called round to the house too often.

Thirdly, and this would be what I would want a post-Rev discussion group to talk about, where was the leadership? The vicar was portrayed as pastor and no more. There is a reactive necessity to a pastoral ministry but when a church reaches a certain size it is not possible for one pastor to do it all. Adam's ministry was in constant demand but he had no strategy for coping, delegating, training or leading. And he preached two minute sermons which were criticised for their content (my congregation might well complain about being short-changed).

I currently work in a small town but all the rest of my life I have been in an urban situation. I never felt it necessary to drink, smoke, swear or wank my way to relaxation. There were gentlemen of the road, scroungers and the easily offended but there were more than moments of reprieve. It wasn't hell. And there were many, many laughs

To quote another good comedy, no-one told me it was meant be this way. So I didn't act as if it was.

Adam left us watching him administer prayer to a dying woman. The writers felt that in that was the gist of the job and the source of satisfaction. Or did they? Perhaps Adam sitting in his study carefully drafting a Bible-based preaching series and an outreach strategy for the autumn may have been nearer the truth, but it isn't funny.

Rev should be compulsory viewing at theological colleges.

The End of the Party

I have a lot of respect for those journalists and politicians who read Andrew Rawnsley's book sub-titled The Rise and Fall of New Labour. Don't get me wrong, it's brilliant, but at 25 squids for the hardback and 679 pages you need a couple of free days to read it properly. It's taken me two months.

I know that to some extent it's old news now but I found it fascinating in its assessment of the contrast, and sheer, bitter enmity between Blair and Brown. Even if it's only 50% right it is a damning indictment.

There is a lesson in the necessary humility of leadership for all of us there. Can you climb to the top of the political tree without treading on any fingers? That way lies taking up a cross, methinks.

Rawnsley also makes it clear that the New Labour project was not a catastrophic failure as some might say. They achieved much, no-one saw the bank crisis coming, they probably over-spent, with the benefit of hindsight, and the expenses scandal would have damned whoever was in power. Cameron was politically astute not to be trimmed with his wisteria whereas Brown was taken to the cleaners.

This quote floats out of the final pages:

The attempt to fashion a big tent which would appeal to voters and interests with opposed aspirations always threatened to end in disappointment among both the traditionalists and the modernisers.

I hope the current lot are paying attention.

Not Quite Right

I am updating this from the Gallery Room at Holy Trinity, Nailsea, my home computer having gone awol and my IT guru being a venture cook with his family this week (a good thing and more important than computers). By the way I love Gus' T-shirt slogan 'I read your email' on The IT Crowd last Friday.

I have spent a few happy hours in internet cafes getting used to the foibles of keyboards with dodgy keys. This feels a bit like that, the @ and " keys producing each other's symbols.

I am reminded of an office slogan from the early days of technology - to err is human but to really foul things up takes a computer. I may have misremembered 'foul.'

Had a lovely two days off last week followed by a quiet Saturday. Mrs Mustard (great new shoes) and I caught up with each other and enjoyed a wander round the excellent Bristol Harbourside Festival. It has to be one of the best free gigs in the country. It is very green, eco-friendly, carbon neutral, inclusive and if anyone is overweight you should chant 'Who ate all the lentils?'

Then the computer crashed. It doesn't half knock the lentil-based stuffing out of me when this happens. It crashed on the day I upgraded my phone but the new tariff with unlimited internet access doesn't come into operation until the next billing. Respect however to Sohail at the Cribbs Causeway Orange Shop for great customer service, patience and complimenting my wife on her lovely - phone. Meanwhile the home computer is no more than a stone.

So today, not a busy day in the diary, looks like being full of reading and tidying and writing long-hand. I may finish The End of the Party, Andrew Rawnsley's epic tome on New Labour. It's very well written even though one or two of the details may not be quite right. Possibly then Karen Armstrong's The Bible: A Biography and Wolfe's little book on Epistemology.

Could squeeze in a movie perhaps or begin The Wire series 4.

My training incumbent Ian, on days of bad weather, would say, 'It's on days like this that I conclude the Lord has other things for us to do.' I think computer crashes are the same as adverse climate so I'll find other things to do, like getting my head straighter.

Thanks to those who have been praying for my knee. It has caused me far less trouble this last week than previously but, unless it gets completely healed, I intend to keep going down the specialist route. Nothing quite so annoying as taking a non-existent rattle to a mechanic though, is there?

Working in the church complex someone just brought me a coffee. That is a plus. I may stay. Just spotted last week's Collect on an old notice sheet:

Lord God, your Son left the riches of heaven and became poor for our sake: when we prosper save us from pride, when we are needy save us from despair, that we may trust in you alone; through Jesus Christ our lord. Amen.

Amen indeed.

I will eliminate despair from my enquiries.