Hairstyles and Attitudes

I had a hair cut in Stratford yesterday (thanks Indi, fine work as usual). This alerted TCMT that I would be in the vicinity of Lakeland, a shop where she used to work and which purveys several products which we never knew we needed until we got them but now can't live without. She gave me a list. I asked for a translation. It's not a fault it's a feature. TCMT2 will cross her Ts.

And so it came to pass that I entered the shop, having arrived fifteen minutes early for my haircut, calculating that I had enough time to buy the three listed things first.

I am familiar with the layout of Lakeland and claimed the kettle descaler bags and medium sized rubber gloves within seconds. The lens-cleaning wipes were harder to track down and, although it feels like an admission of defeat, I approached the counter and asked for help. A woman of about sixty, five foot three, bobbed grey hair and large glasses pointed to the boxes three feet from my right hand. I felt an idiot but TCMT later told me that they kept them on the counter because they are a best-seller.

Hold the description of the assistant in your head. It will be important later.

Lakeland try and have sales staff that match the customer demographic. If you imagine you are selling to a sixty year old woman you won't go far wrong. I'm sure they enjoy the men who come in and see it as a badge of honour to find the stuff like a treasure hunt rather than seek help. Maybe they run a sweepstake on how long it will be before we ask.

One customer profile is a grey haired, not-unattractive woman who gives off vibes of Baroness or Mrs Something-in-the-City. This woman is used to having staff and knows how to treat them. She will never search in the store for that might suggest an interest in the stock. No, she will walk through the door, adjust her dress for the new environment, and announce her presence by shouting 'clingfilm' or some such product. She will then wait for someone to jump. They'd better.

Apparently it is worth being nice to such people who may, on a whim, choose to buy air-fryers for all their family for Christmas.

Back to my story. Satisfied that I had all the products on my list and had correctly identified any necessary deals (two for one, buy one get one free and an email every day for life) I went back to the counter and brandished my purchases. There are normally questions about loyalty here but TCMT has the Lakeland card so I said no. I was spending about £15.

'If you get the app today you get 10% off' said the kindly woman. (Ten minutes to hair appointment now.) I succumbed.

I scanned a QR code (how rock and roll am I) and went through the process. It was surprisingly easy and I reached the last stage when a message proclaimed 'Your new card will appear here - it may take a few minutes.' (Seven minutes to hair appointment.)

I read the sentence back to the assistant who looked at me as if I was the sort of person who read things aloud in shops. I went on to explain that I needed to be next door in five minutes and could I proceed without the discount. Another gormless look.

A voice from behind me said 'Are you ready now?' I turned round. Sure enough the assistant who had been serving me had wandered off to do some other task while she waited for me and had been replaced behind the counter by another woman who was clearly different but would have matched the same description precisely. Neither may have been sixty. As you can gather I don't pay much attention. I'd been drinking with a friend for an hour once when he cracked and asked if I was going to ask him about his black eye. At that point I noticed it.

Wrongs righted with a 'What am I like' and assistant A returned and my new loyalty card appeared on my phone screen. I made some comment about being glad to get the discount when assistant B told me that it only applied to purchases over £30. I didn't speak but managed to incarnate all the disappointments of my current life (medical, financial, West Brom's run of results) into a single look and assistant A folded. I got the discount. I paid the bill. I arrived at my hair appointment on the dot.

Somehow the whole process reminded me of the church at Failand which, when I arrived in the team in 2006 had fifteen members average age 75. When I left sixteen years later having observed or taken several funerals for the congregation it had fifteen members average age 75. It was as if there was a deal that every 65 year old in the village had to join the church when an 85 year old died. 'Come on Mavis, your turn now.' It worked. Also, they paid their parish share. Or maybe the baroness paid all of it.

If you fit the description, apply for a job at Lakeland. It may be your turn. Today we discovered we had run out of Moth Off, or whatever it is called now. I may need to go back.

Come to think of it the second one may not have had glasses.  

Faith After Doubt

Faith After Doubt

Brian McLaren

A longer book review on the way. This book has been really important for me. It may be equally helpful for others on similar journeys.

I came to faith through the ministry of a church youth group in suburban Birmingham in the early 1970s. I didn't know anything about the range of style within the Church of England at first. Soon I understood that it was a Conservative Evangelical church.

That youth group was run by a talented and tireless curate called Don. On the 'divisive' issues of the day he was not extremely conservative. He was a huge supporter of women's ministry and ordination, and forgiving on divorce and remarriage. That said I regularly heard sermons that promoted creationism over evolution.

Fast forward a few years and I'm married, have a son and am pursuing the possibility of ordination. That journey came as a surprise to me and is another story. I headed off to St John's College in Nottingham and a degree in theology.

I wasn't a great student but I was fascinated. Getting to grips with theological reading for the first time in my life I was also angry. Why had I been a member of churches for ten years and no one had so much as hinted at this sort of thing? The very idea that the Bible contained a range of material, not all of it history, started to help me make sense of things. Others who had the same experience struggled with their faith. But a reasonable summary of my years since then has been a desire to make sure people were not as uneducated as I. But how to do that?

As McLaren himself says, '...the better the job that colleges do in actually training their student to be responsible theologians, the more out of sync those future pastors will be with churches that hire them to maintain the status quo.'

It has not been a matter of asserting things that would start a fight. It has been a matter of patiently and gently suggesting things such as:

• Genesis 1-11 is not history
• In the Gospels some words are put on Jesus' lips by the writers
• Some biblical teaching is limited by the culture of its day
• Substitutionary atonement is a model, not the model

For the last 25 years Brian McLaren has been a companion on this journey, although we have never met. His trilogy of books about the sorts of things I have listed above, and his journey in conservative churches, were helpful. (1)

Since then, along the way, he has been true to his original aim of helping us to discover how a new kind of Christian leads to a new way of being church.

Which brings us to this - Faith after Doubt. It's sub-titled 'Why your beliefs stopped working and what to do about it'.

There have been many fine attempts over the years to categorise stages of faith. Fowlers six are the best known. All seem to suggest that the arrival at sage-like dotage just before your death bed is the ideal.

Here are McLaren's stages:

1. Simplicity

Epitomised by a desire to divide the world into yes or no, good or bad, in or out. Likes to belong to a church with clear black and white rules about ethics and doctrine. All that is required of a member is unquestioning loyalty.

Me 1971-76

2. Complexity

Here the question is 'How can I be successful?' Things are no longer known and knowable but learned and doable. Moving away from authority figures as soon as you discover they have flaws. Maybe start looking for a church community more like you. Exchange the joy of being right for the joy of being effective.

Many members of the faith community never get beyond this stage.

Me 1976 - 1996

3. Perplexity

Those who do not want to settle down in stages 1 or 2 often leave. For those who don't 'Come join a community of people who don't know what they believe any more but want to talk about it' is not an easy recruit. Plus the leaders have no answers or certainties. Many ministry students experience this in their first term of theological education. And having built something wonderful as we moved from stage 1 to stage 2 we find ourselves knocking it down again. Members of this group often have humility (I don't know the answer) and courage (Let's journey into the unknown together and see where it leads). Not moral relativism but challenging incomplete morality.

I got here quickly (hold the humility) and spent 1981-96 crossing over. I since have been here for about thirty years. The reason Faith After Doubt is so good is that it encouraged me to go on with the journey

Me 1981-2023

4. Harmony

Many members of the Society of Friends (Quakers) laugh at the slowness with which western Christians get to this point. It is the stage at which one sees love as the driving force steering us through 1-3. It is the point at which we accept, rather than reject, all the disparate bits and pieces of messy life which have got us here. The new music is of appreciation, empathy and wonder. McLaren adds love. No wonder being present in stage four can feel like being lost for words, or maybe lost in wonder, love and praise as the hymn puts it.(2)

I once got in a big dispute by arguing that all change comes from dissatisfaction. I stand by that although the discussion was passionate. I don't think I can persuade you to change your mind until you are dissatisfied with the status quo. And conversely I must value the doubt I developed about my stages 1-3 faith for without the doubt I wouldn't have reached here. Reached where? Well, reached the start of the journey, a journey most people never discover and few have the privilege of joining.

Me, now.

If you're ready, read this book.

(1) A New Kind of Christian (2001)
The Story We Find Ourselves In (2003)
The Last Word and the Word After That (2005)

(2) Love Divine, All Loves Excelling

Violence, Bible and Palestine

I wonder if you can get your imagination to a place where you feel so persecuted that you can imagine causing harm to the children of the persecutor?

I have been fortunate to have never come anywhere near this point but I have lived a very safe and sheltered life. I can disagree with the government without fear of arrest. My land borders are not disputed. The authorities take no interest in my clothes or sexual orientation. It has been my privilege not to be persecuted.

My formative teenage years had a backdrop of IRA atrocity. I was in Birmingham's Tavern in the Town the night before a bomb exploded there killing many. I've felt fortunate since then. The further away from it I get the closer it seems.

I found it hard to grasp a cause which dealt with the innocent like that.

Then, in 1988, I read, on an album sleeve of all places, this:

'On October 5 1968, a peaceful civil rights march in Derry (including parents and members of the band) was brutally attacked by the Royal Ulster Constabulary on the instructions of the Unionist-controlled Stormont Government. This was followed by the organised attack of a peaceful student march from Belfast to Derry by Unionist extremists setting a precedent of anti-nationalist violence in the subsequent months and culminating in the British Government's decision to draft in its troops to uphold 'law and order'.

'In the face of such belligerent intransigence, it was a small step from demanding civil rights to demanding a complete severance of ties from Britain and the establishment of a Socialist Irish State. The resurgence of the Irish Republican Army, largely dormant from the late '50s, heralded an age where constitutional politics went from sick-joke status to complete irrelevancy for the nationalist community.'

I make no claims about the factual accuracy of the piece. It simply became a personal tipping point. I understood the gut-led emotional reaction of anger of five young Catholic men utterly helpless in the face of aggression. Of course I am not defending the IRA. And the young men responded with music not violence

Psalm 137 was put on the lips of every young person of my generation in 1978 when Boney M charted with By the Rivers of Babylon. In fact the song was a cover, the original dating from 1970. Psalm 137 is a response to a taunt. People in exile in Babylon are asked by their captors to sing one of their Hebrew songs. They respond, I paraphrase, 'How can we sing the Lord's songs in a strange land?' Songs of the Temple won't work elsewhere.

At the end of Psalm 137 is a verse that Boney M chose not to sing. Again to paraphrase, 'Happy (is he) who takes your little ones and bashes their heads against the rocks.' Maybe, as Robert Alter says, it is a good job the captors did not understand the Hebrew in which the song-response to the taunt was delivered. Whether there was ever any intention of acting so, I doubt. But the song tells of a people angry enough to think it.

The religions of the Book have the highest possible care for the non-combatants during war-time. Hebrew Scriptures emphasise reasonable response (eye for eye, tooth for tooth). The New Testament suggests loving your enemy and praying for those who persecute you. The Quran specifically prohibits the killing of innocent people.

People often deride religions for causing wars. These days it is usually land-grabbing that causes wars and religion is sometimes enlisted for justification on either or both sides. The Hebrew Scriptures are a story of God-condoned land-grabbing and also, as Rabbi Jonathan Sacks said, 'a national literature of self-criticism.'

I lament for the innocent of Israel and Palestine. I don't understand how the national boundaries can be finalised without concessions. I do understand why a first reaction is to bang the heads of the enemy against the rocks. Trouble is, we've been having nothing but first reaction for two and a half thousand years. And the children get their heads smashed in.

Lessons from Village Life

I've lived in a village for a year now. I'm getting the hang of it. My sister and her husband were coming for coffee so I took a wander up to the Farm Shop to buy a better class of biscuit. Not quite as bad as my friend who cleans under the floorboards before his mother visits but you know, standards. I went on a circular ramble starting with the Inconvenience Store (it's not their chosen name but it is how they make customers feel if we interrupt their phone calls) to get a paper.

On the way I catch up with a guy I know who is taking his dog for a walk. They were going slowly so I had to work out how I was going to greet them as I overtook. This is the sort of thing that bothers people who have dreadful social skills.

I know where the dog walker lives and so we chatted about the weather (forecast rubbish; local knowledge good) for the fifty yards before his turn off. I then made my apologies and picked speed up again towards the shop. He didn't turn off. 

At the shop I pulled the door which looks like a puller but you should push and getting it wrong makes a crash. I get it wrong about every third time. There is no helpful information written on the door. I said Good Morning to Mr Inconvenience, a man who seems to enjoy his customer's distress. I got my paper, spent twenty seconds working out how much washing liquid costs in a small village shop (extortionate, cheaper to drive to Waitrose) and then heard my dog-walking friend at the counter. I did what all social introverts would do and hid in the household products aisle until he had gone. Then I purchased my paper and asked:

Do you have any AA batteries?

(A pack of AA batteries is placed on the counter without word or gesture.)

I left the shop and adjusted my pace so as not to overtake dog-walker before he reached his road although I tried to get close enough to see what newspaper he had under his arm to aid future conversations. I always like saying 'You shouldn't believe everything you read in the Telegraph' to Telegraph readers who are invariably amazed I know what they read. Sadly, he had it rolled too tightly under his arm. It was broadsheet and not pink though. I think I know.

On to the Farm Shop for the biscuits. Also some mozzarella for tonight's supper dish. I quickly find the biscuits but the lovely K rescues me from running my eye down the cheese selection for a third time. She greets me by name and asks what I am looking for. This is how a convenience store should work.

I tell K that I haven't seen her for a while. Apparently she has changed her days to Tuesdays and Wednesdays so it must be Tuesday or Wednesday today. It's not something I need to know these days.

Turns out she had just taken all the mozzarella off the shelves because it was past its display by. I say I don't mind and she pops to get it. Turns out she, and the shop, would get in big trouble if a bolshy customer reported them for selling stock beyond its display by date so, even though she knows I am not bolshy (I'm not, don't listen to my friends), she insists on giving it to me for nothing. Maybe it makes up for all the times I have popped to the Farm Shop for some milk and come back with £20 worth of baked goods and cooked breakfast items. A man's gotta do.

I put some cash in the charity boxes to deal with my guilt. Also, I now see it is smoked mozzarella which is not what I want but by this time I cannot decline.

Later that evening I discover that smoked mozzarella risotto is delicious.

Village life. We have a system for reporting escaped livestock you know. You phone Tom.

A Funny Thing Happened on the A46

My neighbours had lost their cat, Ollie. I only know its name because they had leafleted us all asking us to look in our sheds.

Driving home the other morning I parked on the drive and noticed neighbour and daughter walking around with a cat on a lead.

'You got Ollie back then?'

'Yes.'

Ollie avoided eye contact. Probably shame.

Nobody knows where Ollie had been but he returned after a couple of days. We once lost a cat for four months until we saw her in the pub car park opposite, begging fried chicken and fish from the garden customers. She came home in the winter.

That's enough about cats for a piece that is about cars. Only one thing happens to cats on the A46.

So I was distracted by Ollie on a lead, the ultimate feline indignity. Not likely, I reckon, to endear him to his adopted family. Which is how I came to shut the car boot on the handle of a bag for life. Annoying. I pressed the key fob again and the boot unlocked and immediately locked again. The handle was doing something to the system.

My car is a VW T-Roc convertible. It has two doors only. The rear seats do tip forward to allow enough space to take a Christmas tree to the tip though. And where is the catch to release the rear seats? You're way ahead aren't you?

I guessed this must have happened before. And yes, there is a section in the manual on it.

Half way down the driver's door pillar is a rubber bung, covering a hole (see illustration). Usually these bungs are used to fill in a gap caused by 'features not available on this model'. But lo, not here. Removing the bung (screwdriver needed) revealed it was attached to two pieces of stout cord the pulling of which would 'release the rear seats'. I did and it did. Well, half did. The driver's side seat released. I checked that the manual said 'both' and it did. I pulled again on the cords, a bit firmer, but nothing happened. But there was a gap into the boot that someone familiar with caving might access. I did a bit of caving thirty years ago before 'bulge at L5 and L6' calmed my sporting career down a bit. Slowly and tentatively, iPhone torch in hand, I squirmed into the boot.

I found the catch to release the boot lid and then squirmed back to get the (screwdriver needed) again. This worked but it relocked as soon as I removed the screwdriver.

I resquirmed and asked a friend for help. OK, wife.

'What do you want me to do?'

'Open the car boot.'

'Sounds like there's a catch.' (Would have made a good punchline but we have a few sentences to go.)

'There is. I'll be in it.'

This time I went extra slowly and carefully, remembering the tools. And the boot was opened. And I got out with all the tools and the mangled bag. And my back is fine thanks for asking.

This story is told in case it ever helps.

You may have forgotten the title. The next day I was driving along the A46 when the rear passenger-side seat dropped forward.

How to Clean a Conservatory Roof

The conservatory roof was covered in moss and the window clearer wanted £100 to clean it. I speak fluent window cleaner and this translates as ‘I don’t want to do that’.

And so it came to pass that I spent a good chunk of last Saturday poking a long bamboo stick out of the bedroom window and then climbing a ladder to try from the other direction. Eventually the moss was clear but it needed washing down. From my new vantage point I met a new neighbour, whose garden backs onto ours. He offered a free and far reaching monologue on the abilities of the original owner of my house. That man apparently got a job lot of fence posts ‘off of the railway’ and then discovered there were no commercially available panels to fit the grooves but by then had concreted the posts in which is why the panels rattle in the wind. My new neighbour offered me a loan of his power washer.

As there wasn’t much cleaning to do now the moss was free I said I would take him up on his kind offer if the rain didn’t shift it. ‘That’ll be Monday’ said NN who has lived here thirty years and therefore knows about the rain’s plans.

All we needed were a couple of buckets of water to wash the debris down the roof and into the gutter. From my ladder vantage point I directed TCMT in the bathroom as to which panels needed rinsing and we had some success.

I need to digress for a moment here. TCMT and I have been married for sapphire years and together for 49. I know that she speaks mainly emotion and I speak if absolutely necessary and with some precision. I can have a spontaneous emotional discussion but I try to anticipate it and prepare. She, for her part, knows I like and use clear instructions. So what happened next is my fault. She had been pouring the water slowly, carefully and gently up to this point so my instruction, pointing to a bit we had missed, to ’Chuck some over there’ was meant to be about direction not power.

Instantly a whole bucketful of water was thoroughly chucked where I was pointing but, due to some science, that would not be the end of its journey. I was up a ladder directing operations and in a microsecond calculated that:

• I was about to be soaked
• I could avoid this by moving but that could only be down and fast and I might break a bit

I did what any sensible person would have done in the circumstances and shut my mouth. Two microseconds later my mouth was the only bit of me that did not contain water.

I repeat that this was entirely my own fault for being a cute systematising male. Oh, ‘acute’ is it? Sorry.

What is unforgivable is that the bucket wielder then began to laugh. Somewhat sympathetically and apologetically but uncontrollably nevertheless. The roof looks lovely. It is Monday and not currently raining.

Warwickshire

I was born in Warwickshire. Some time during my early years I found myself in the West Midlands without moving house. I was given a post-code - B29 7HW. But I've always been a child of Warwickshire in my own eyes. I now live in Worcestershire but Warwickshire is 400 metres down the road. If I look poorly I've asked to be carried across the border.

I think, even by my standards, that reviewing a book published in 1936 is leaving it a bit late. But Warwickshire, in The King's England series merits a chat. I'm glad to have it because it feels like the sort of book that ends up on a pub bookshelf as decoration when the place gets post-modernised. Now it's a £3 investment in my rescue library.

This was a book I found in the wonderful Malvern Bookshop and, although I won't be reading it cover to cover, I will make a point of looking up every local place I visit. Why? Well a few examples will help but first let us see how it ended up in my house because it bears the evidence of having been a library book.

The proprietor told me that she often bought up collections so closed-down libraries were a key source. She was such a book buff that she kept behind the counter a book full of lovely sketch illustrations of dogs, 'I will only sell it to someone who promises not to remove the pictures and sell them separately', she told me. I don't know what the staining is on the inside cover page of my book and will not be finding out.

The copy I have is a 1950 reprint. I don't know if you can, offhand, think of anything that made a substantial difference to the appearance of Warwickshire towns and cities between 1936 and 1950 but the author could. Then chose to ignore it. Which, to be fair, is what makes the text zing. Every visit to a Luftwaffe drop-zone with this text reminds you of what the place used to look like. 

Let us head to Coventry. Or maybe the wonders of the clean air and dust-free buildings turn your thoughts to the Med? Did I say buildings? What buildings? It wasn't desirable to note that they are now missing.

But I am a child of Selly Oak. (My mother now pipes up from the grave reminding us, because she was a dreadful snob about this sort of thing, that I came from Selly Park, not Selly Oak.) Whatever, I have to say I failed to notice that I was in '...one of the wonderful intellectual centres of England.' I had to walk half a mile into Edgbaston to get to one of the best schools in the country. And Selly Oak library warrants an illustration, although it is not of the building I remember which was black (from coal dust, probably), austere and next to a railway bridge.

The discussion of Selly Oak Colleges goes on the suggest that there is a possibility of a drinking vessel used at the last Supper being there. This interesting argument is slightly skewered by the inscription of the words of Jesus at that event on the goblet. Indiana Jones not heading our way.

My late Aunty Brenda was fond of saying 'I'm just going up the village' when she left the house to go to Selly Oak. It strikes me as a folk memory from a time before Birmingham came out and swallowed it, moving on in pursuit of Northfield, Rednal and Rubery

Although my favourite hard-to-visualise is the comparison of Sutton Coldfield's Parade with the famous Richmond in Surrey. Famous for being on-Thames I recall. Sutton what are you like? You misplaced the river.

I will be returning for further volumes.

Take Me To the River

I've written a bit about the local place names recently, catch up here. The name Harvington (where I live) is derived from old words for army, ford and village (settlement or farm). Thing is, the mighty Avon sort of rushes by a bit and it is over a mile away so it is hard to imagine anyone wandering across.

But on our Sunday afternoon constitutional today we walked down to the river and the low vegetation at this time of year enabled us to get right down to the bank. And there we discovered (OK, noticed) that there is an underwater paved surface before the weir. You can see in the photo a track running down to it on the far bank by the blue car, which stopped helpfully. There is a corresponding track where I was standing. The ford is roughly defined by the area where the water ripples.

Once over it is another mile to the oldest part of the village where church, pub and houses named after former tradespeople are situated.

But yes, the story makes sense. Here be a place where an army could once have crossed a river. It is probably the case that the human-made ford created the weir rather than vice-versa. It is ironic that there now has to be a lock to enable craft to get past this point. It feels like a metaphor for water travel giving way to road travel. Since the Harvington by-pass has been by-passed (A46 Stratford to Evesham section) this story may well run and run.

Delivery Slots

Forgive me accessing my inner Tim Dowling but this happened.

We bought a sofa bed. Quick tip. If you want a sofa bed demonstration in a furniture department and there are no partners (oops, what a giveaway) around to help, try doing it yourself, badly, and pretty soon you will be surrounded by advice.

We managed to purchase a product that was in stock, so delivery was agreed for next Wednesday which meant today.

'They'll text you the day before to give you a two hour window.'

Yesterday that text arrived and the two hour window was 7.00 a.m. - 9.00 a.m. The text also said they would message again when half an hour away.

'What shall we do?' asked Mrs Dowling (see how it works).

Now I know what the answer to this question is. If it had happened that I had been home alone to receive the delivery I would have set an alarm for 6.45 a.m., popped on some clothes, made a coffee and had a look at my phone to see if they had been in touch yet.

However anticipating that, as ever, there are two ways to answer a question such as this, my wife's way and the wrong way, I provided this answer aloud:

'You set your alarm and then bring me a coffee in bed.'

She looked a little sad for no reason but no more was said.

This morning I heard Mrs D get out of bed (but not her alarm) and a short time later a cup of coffee was indeed placed at my bedside. I popped to the loo (noting that the heating had not yet come on), came back to bed, had a sip of coffee and checked the time. 6.16 a.m. This, we note, is 14 minutes earlier than the earliest possible half hour notice text. I went back to snoozing.

At (I calculate) 6.31 a.m. a voice on the landing disturbs my slumber to say the delivery will be at 7.00 a.m. I go back to snoozing.

At 6.45 a.m. I find myself fully awake so turn on the light and grab something to read while finishing my lukewarm coffee.

I am collecting outrageous quotes from HTSI (The Financial Times' weekly guide to spending lots of money) and find this, 'If you want to achieve your dreams you have to hustle.' Suppose your dream is to be nice to as many people as possible?

At 6.59 a.m. I hear a van arrive in our quiet cul-de-sac. I get out of bed and put on some joggers and a t-shirt, insert my teeth and smooth my hair over.

At 7.00 a.m. there is a knock on the door. I wander downstairs and answer it (there is no sign of Mrs D). A man with a large box asks where I want it?

'Would upstairs be OK?' I ask.

'Sure', he says, far too cheerily for 7.01 a.m.

Mrs D joins us during the second box (of three). She whispers that she was in the loo (at precisely, precisely mind, the time they said they would be here).

I am now writing an amusing anecdote having wished five friends a happy birthday, prepared and eaten my breakfast, sorted out the washing, and read HTSI, Feast and the Church Times. I've even had an internal dialogue about Oxford commas. Not happy with the result.

I have never heard the sound of a sofa bed being assembled upstairs but I'm taking a wild guess. I am pressing P for publish whilst still within the two hour delivery slot.

Christmas 2022

 Our family Christmas newsletter is on the Christmas Blog. Do drop in.

Quietly Getting on with It

Hey, Christians,

How do you feel when someone urges you to be more passionate for your faith? Maybe you are already pretty much on fire and feel 'This is not about me'. Perhaps you are nowhere near passionate yet and need an intermediate step before your funeral will be full of eulogies describing you as such. Or possibly you (and this is me, OK?)  don't particularly do passion in that way. You live your life with the passionometer slightly below central leaving you content in all things but rarely angry or enthusiastic. You don't tweet about your excitement before a gig or curtain up. You have never, knowingly, been stoked.

And how do you feel when someone tells you that the problem with men today is that we no longer know how to lead. They mean the family headship thing and 'they' is almost always a heterosexual man who goes to the gym but not to do CV, has at least five children and can hold his breath longer than you while his beautiful wife looks after the children.

And how do you feel when a leader describes their priorities in life as if they were on a things to do list? You know:

1. God

2. Family

3. Church

Having the word 'God' on that list confuses me. It is a category error. Why isn't 'breathing' on the list? Surely it's a priority, unless you're holding your breath for now.

This is stick preaching more than carrot. Or, if it is carrot it is from the Malcom Tucker playbook, who will use the stick to shove the carrot up his victim's arse.

I feel the 'this doesn't apply to me' thing so much in the face of evangelical preaching these days. Even in the midst of doubt I am not discontent.  I am accepting of the fact that it is me who is doubting  - dubitatio ergo sum - which proves my existence and would please Descartes if not the Alpha Course.

No. In the routine, grass roots of life and faith I am content. It is OK to stumble through the long grass finding occasional paths and much local beauty. Not everything is a competition on doctrinal precision. Not everything is divisible into man task and woman task. Quiet inner peace is not a passion fail.

Occasionally my church commitments have meant disappointing my family. They are nice people. They understand. They certainly do not want to be on any list that includes my work tasks.

Losing It

In the mid 1990s I was helping to set up a stand at an exhibition and the hall had no heating on. So I went to a 24/7 Tesco megastore in Manchester and bought a fleece. I recall asking  my colleague, Clive, what sort of person shopped at Tesco at midnight and he looked at me and said 'You'.

I came very close to losing it the other day. It wouldn't have been the fault of the checkout assistant at Pets at Home but it was in front of him.

Those of you who know me will probably now be wondering what sort of pet I have. I don't. I simply wanted to recharge the garden bird feeders. There is no local independent pet shop like Aaron's in Nailsea here, so I had to go to the out of town retail park world where Pets at Home lives.

I found what I needed and took it to the counter. Assistant looked at me and asked 'Do you have a loyalty card?' I kept it together and managed to say 'No'. What I wanted to say was 'Do I look like the sort of person who has a f***ing Pets at Home loyalty card?' Offered a 10% discount on my peanuts, suet balls and sunflower hearts if I signed up then and there, I agreed to get one. 

He asked me a number of questions including 'What sort of pet(s) do you have?'

'None' was not an answer the computer could stomach. He put 'bird'.

I now have a Pets at Home app. It's a VIP card and is accessed, I kid you not, through a Pawtal. And if I want a good deal on, cages, mirrors and perches it's only a click away. Just in case I forget, I get weekly emails reminding me of this plus invites to join Vets4Pets or Companion Care.

What sort of person has a Pets at Home loyalty card and app? The same sort of person who buys a fleece at an out of town hypermarket at midnight. Me. Loser.

There were no birds visiting our new garden. I've counted seven species so far. Redemption. Not quite Falling Down territory.

Downsizing

We've been down-sizing. Naively we thought moving to a house half the size of our big vicarage meant only taking half our furniture. If you read no further paragraphs and want a single take-away from this piece please note that furniture designed for big rooms can't make that journey. Doing what we have done you will need to get rid of most of your furniture and purchase smaller pieces.

Over the years we have collected several items in pine and these created the theme of our last two homes. I wrote only this summer about the lovely old ironmonger's counter units we had procured, with the stated hope that we could keep them. In fact we gave two to our younger son and his family and brought two with us. A couple of weeks into living here in our new home and we worked out they were too big for the space. Also, surprisingly, it turns out that a big part of liking them was the space in which they lived. Without wishing to sound pretentious, this is not a pine house. It has a sleeker, more modern vibe. No carpets downstairs. Wood painted black,. Blinds not curtains. And the usual modern bathroom accessories that are a triumph of style over function.

Our last two houses have been big. Our Victorian terrace in Leamington had three floors,  many rooms and decent high ceilings. Our modern vicarage in Nailsea had a couple of huge spaces in which ordinary furniture got lost. Our conservatory alone had a four seater corner sofa, the biggest of the old counter-cupboards and a dining table that seated twelve, comfortably. There were two further sofas in the lounge. Fate of the older one is pictured.

There is a modicum of truth in the saying that clergy are middle-class people in upper class houses on lower-class salaries.

One of my main sources of joy in an ordinary week is the FT Weekend glossy supplement HTSI. It used to be called How To Spend It which is a big clue as to what it might be like. The first six pages are usually double-page promotionals for watches. No, not Swatches.

It is not devoid of ideas for the cute use of space, something we are working very hard on just now. This week there was a special focus on someone who has chosen to live in an open-plan cave. Not an actual cave but a purpose-built one. The pictures of the accommodation are beautiful and could probably manage well enough without being described as '...an organic celebration of the curvilinear.' We learn that open-plan living 'requires a robust approach to one's ablutions'. Yes folks, in this space everyone can hear you stream. Anyone got the number for Private Eye's Pseuds' Corner?

The HTSI subjects have a lot of space.  We don't. So we have spent five weeks carefully monitoring dead space where things might be kept. We need to lose one more pine unit completely and a huge pine dresser which we spent real  money on in 1984. One further shop display case can stay but needs painting to blend in. The last of the four old counter units is going in the garage as useful storage.

Yesterday we threw more money at a bespoke shelving solution (sorry, I've caught pretentiousness now) than we spent on each of our first three cars, even allowing for inflation. Turns out that making things small, compact and beautiful is expensive. And meeting a wonderful local carpenter gave us a couple of ideas for space-saving which we hadn't thought of. Can't quite afford Scooby Doo wardrobe doors but they are enticingly cool. Thanks, James Adcock.

Carrying with us our Arts and Crafts mantra and thus trying to have nothing in our home that isn't useful or beautiful (don't ask how I made the cut) we have entered the world of sofa-beds, integrated kitchen appliances and flat-screen TVs. We do already have some pleasing quiet corners though, with a few more to come.

Minimalism is a bit of a reach from here, see kitchen picture, but the next month sees the premier of Ruthlessness II; this time it's serious.

Introversion and School Days

There was a history master at King Edward's School (KES) who took us at A level. He was called Charles Blount. Wore waistcoats. Bit of an upper crust accent. His teaching style was to lecture, with occasional pauses when he would question someone about something he had either covered before or reckoned should be part of the general knowledge of an Edwardian.

He went round the class in turn with his questions. Those of us who tended more to general ignorance than knowledge dreaded the moment our turn came. We could concentrate on little else as the geography of the enquiries reached our vicinity.

My first ever question in this context was 'What is anti-clericalism?' You may sense some deep prophetic undertone in this. You'd be right. Being poor at history but reasonable at vocabulary I took the phrase apart in my head and gave the answer 'A dislike of the clergy'. 'That's right' said Charles. I enjoyed the sense of relief that it would be a lesson or two before my turn came again and, furthermore, I had answered a question on a matter not yet covered. General knowledge demonstrated. Smugness.

Several weeks later, with no recollection of having answered a question correctly in the meantime and having achieved a mark of 5/20 for my first essay, there was a lesson in which the questions were getting nearer. If I was lucky I would be saved by the bell. I was not.

Then came my question. I couldn't believe my ears. 'What is anti-clericalism?' The very same, although this time it was a matter we had covered and I knew a bit more about it than could be achieved by parsing. Nevertheless I gave the same answer as it had worked before. I was shocked to hear 'No, it's more than just a dislike of the clergy, anyone else?'

Although I remained silent at such a brush off my inner monologue was raging. What is the point? Some of us are born to be wrong. I give up. I think I may have resolved that I would lose less face if I answered 'Don't know' to all further questions. Remarkably, history was my best A level and I enjoy reading history now.

There was an English master at KES called Tom Parry. He taught my class English, and history, at O level. Very Welsh. I got good grades in both subjects but he didn't seem to like me. Took every opportunity to belittle me in front of the class and was reluctant to admit I didn't need special measures.

One day he asked us, out of the blue, what we were reading for pleasure. I used to read all the time at home and had always got a novel on the go but the terror of how my personal taste would be received by my friends made my mind go blank. I ended up mentioning a couple of Ian Fleming's James Bond books and was told most people grow out of those in primary school. The Parry plaudits were saved for one who had been reading Dostoevski. KES had that sort of 15 year old.

These stories came back to mind as I read Susan Cain's book 'Quiet Power'. It is a follow-up to her best-selling 'Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking'.

Whilst not an extreme of the type I am introverted by personality. I didn't know that as a teenager although my parents observed I spent a lot of time alone and Mum thought it was odd. Dad didn't. He often took himself away to a quiet corner for a cigarette and a look at the newspaper.

Introverts find it hard to interact in class, are often listening when they don't look as if they are, and hate being jumped on with questions when they are unprepared. Susan Cain's follow up book is about people such as me, growing up. It is aimed at teenagers but has a chapter for parents and one for teachers too. I was the kid who needed time alone after school, or to visit a local, undemanding friend to play football or cricket in the garden, or a board game in winter. Thanks Steve. School was emotionally draining but I didn't know.

Susan Cain sees introversion as a super-power, thinking as desirable and quiet as normal. But if this quote represents you then, however late it is, you might find her two books helpful:

'Sometimes, by the time we think of the thing we truly want to say, the discussion is already over.'

Nobody is more surprised than me that I ended up with a career which involved much public-speaking. The secret, if it is a secret now I'm telling you, is this. We can do it if we're ready and prepared. I now challenge myself to do some talks unprepared without notes. It's still cheating because it is usually on a subject I've been discussing for over 40 years. Hardly unprepared. But straight after a new piece of input I won't know what I think and won't be able to discuss it. But I will be able to lead a discussion and, whilst listening to this, I will clarify my thoughts.

Fine book.

Lessons from Ironmongery

I have been quiet on the blogging front recently. Many of you know that I retired in January. Circumstances have conspired to leave us renting our old home until a much-delayed new one is ready. Looks like September now.

The good bit of this is that our older son, who came back to live with us last year, has a little more time to find a new home in Bristol. And the rush to downsize and get packed and moved whilst winding down and handing on my job has been much more relaxed. Whatever your position on the map of faith most kind people would agree that 37 years as a clergyman might have been a bit gruelling. I have now been retired for longer than any period of sabbatical or study leave I have ever had so my psyche is beginning to realise that it doesn't have to go back to work on Monday.

Back in the autumn, when we still imagined we would be getting out in the New Year, we went round the house looking at our possessions, especially the larger ones. Stuff had to go, as the contents of a five bedroomed vicarage prepared to be poured into a three bedroomed home.

Figure 1

We used a three-colour traffic-light label system:

Green = like it or need it, take it with us

Red = hate it or don't need it, dispose

Amber = can't decide yet

If you like my four box diagrams, which I developed during my time as a professional trainer and find usually help explain almost everything, then I have designed one (Figure 1).

Thing is, I was amazed by how little of our stuff I actually liked. All our new wooden storage-type furniture could go as far as I was concerned. Likewise  the dining room table and chairs. It is functional, plain and middle-aged. As indeed was I, once. We have a nice big leather sofa which will fit in our new lounge and a few other pleasant and comfy chairs. The chair my Dad used to sit in at the end of my family dining room is with us. I've known it since 1955. It doesn't match anything but it means something.

We agreed about keeping any books we  loved, would recommend or re-read. My vinyl and musical instruments were a deal-breaker. We are all being ruthless with our wardrobes and one or two pieces (not mine) are doing well on E-bay. Free-to-Collect Nailsea has been a way our functional stuff can help others.

Figure 2

Liz used to work for a homeware retailer called Cargo. Lots of our functional furniture came from there, discounted because it was end of line or damaged. Their stuff was a godsend when our combined incomes were struggling to furnish a big Vicarage. We will hand it on, as we will the fifty sets of crockery and cutlery we don't really need any more.

But the best deal we ever did with Cargo was the counter units. Back in the day, Cargo took over a rather traditional ironmongers called J. W. Carpenter. These shops had wonderful, made-for-purpose pine counters. Cargo chose to replace them with sleek modern plastic and stainless steel jobbies and the old units were flogged off. We offered £100 for four. And they have lived with us for over 20 years since.

Figure 3

The one covered in filing trays and a printer (Figure 2) is in my being-dismantled office. It was once my stationery cupboard and its surface where I put things that I needed to take with me next. Tip to clergy retiring. If you are not moving at once, try and change the vibe of the room that used to be your office/study.

The next one (Figure 3) became the TV stand. It also houses birthday and Christmas wrapping paper. On the right hand end (by the yellow cushion) are two protruding nails at an angle. They used to hold the counter supply of paper bags. We left them there. I love that they have history from before they met us. All the drawers are a bit wonky but move smoothly, polished by the retail transactions they witnessed. 

'Can I have a pound of number 8 woodscrews Mr Carpenter?'

It is not beyond the bounds of probability that one of the drawers once contained candles and a customer asked for four.

Figure 4

All the doors are held shut by slightly different catches; they were probably an afterthought.

The third one holds a random collection of OS maps, DVDs, photographs and instruction manuals. It sits in a room that was once a little lounge (we called it a snug) which was great when only two of us lived here and one was running a meeting in the bigger lounge. That room has now become a place where things are sorted before leaving. My piano is a bit nomadic in our house. It's currently there too.

And the fourth, the biggest, sits at the end of the conservatory (so it is a bit sun-drenched) and houses the aforementioned 50 sets of crockery and cutlery.

Figure 5

Regular guests at our house for food-based events would often start laying the table without being asked. I love that level of hospitality where guests become family.

These are all coming with us if possible, or we will make arrangements to keep them in the family somehow. 

It's strange what possessions mean. Do your things tell any stories? Money has bought us very little which we truly value. Circumstances, memories and people however have been generous.

Why do I keep waking up with a red label on my forehead?

Can't Find My...

Archiving some papers, I found this bit of prosetry for a bygone age when diaries had a physical presence:

I can't find my diary

I have a busy day ahead of me which I can recall. I can get things together for the first meeting but...

I can't find my diary

I retrace my steps to when I last had it. The lounge. Last night. Behind the sofa? Check. No.

I put out the Bibles for the small group which meets here at 10.00 a.m. People arrive. I make coffee. We study. I'm not really into it because...

I can't find my diary

Throughout the day I turn up on time, do what I have to do, but...

I can't find my diary

'I can't find my diary' fills all the gaps and some things that are not gaps until there is a gap big enough for me to search physically. I have been searching mentally all day. Now I have time to find my diary, a thing which is designed to save me time.

Keeping a good diary takes 5% of your time. Losing it takes all of your time.

Turn to the left; turn to the right

At the start of my ministry, in the place I have just retired from, my wife and I invited people round for supper in groups of 15-20 once a month. Primarily this was to thank those who had worked on decorating our house before we arrived (a kindness) but it grew into a thing we liked to do. The first month we scrubbed up and made an effort. I may have worn a tie. Remember those?

Just before the second event my wife asked what I was going to wear that night. We do have this conversation or, from time to time, we dress a little too similarly and it scares us. I recall that my reply was that 'based on last time I thought I'd go for a fleece with food down it.' We dressed down a little bit but always felt part of our job was to pull the standard up.

Three things caught my attention over the last month under the heading 'fashion' - an article, a quote in a TV programme and an individual. Juxtaposition being the secret of most creativity, putting them together in my mind I wanted to have a go at talking about clothes.

Clothes are an important cultural signifier because of the response speed. '...you can react more speedily to the demands of the times with three-and-a-half metres of cloth than you can with, say, 5,000 tons of reinforced concrete.' (Marion Hume, Fashion Editor, the Independent 2/12/1994)

But we are increasingly mindful of those clothes which contain microplastics and the need to move on from throwaway society as we try to reduce, re-use and recycle.

Culture, Brian Eno once defined, is 'Everything you don't have to do'. So clothes aren't cultural but fashion is.

Of my male friends I am probably the one who cares the most about my appearance. I do care. I like to look good and to be individual. I realise I am setting myself up for a fall here but, as I have made my living in the Christian church for 37 years, I have to say it has never felt onerous to be the best-dressed person in the room and, when I notice that I am not, the person I notice is always very well turned out. As Patsy said in Absolutely Fabulous 'You may dress like a Christian but there the similarity ends.' I am talking here about those I perceive to be of my own gender (and I wouldn't have put it like that that 37 years ago, for sure). 

Comments on the clothing of those I perceive to be of other genders or non are kept to myself . Or discussed with Mrs T.

A few years ago, and I can't attribute, I heard this:

Men tend to dress to impress women; it doesn't work.

Women tend to dress to impress women; it doesn't work.

A more nuanced version of this would be Jess Cartner-Morley's, 'Much of fashion operates on a complicated code system that relies on your being sure of the level of sophistication your audience will bring to your wardrobe appraisal.' (Guardian Weekend 28/1/12)

Building on this, writing in the FT weekend the other week, Robert Armstrong drew a distinction between those who dressed ivy (as in Ivy League and almost effortlessly good) and those who were preppy (as in prep school and trying a bit too hard). I know it all gets frightfully snobbish when you step back a bit but, in very general terms, it is good to make an effort with your appearance, not necessarily with overspending; it is bad to make no effort or too much. Dolly Parton once said 'It costs a fortune to look this cheap.' To get to ivy not preppy, which means understanding classic lines and styles and keeping them contemporary, Armstrong says 'You have to care a little bit, spend some time shopping, and try things out. For most men, this can feel like a chore.' Still with me? Or going out in that dirty fleece?

That was the first of the three things.

From a relatively young age my Christmas and birthday presents usually included something fashionable. I enjoyed dressing up for special occasions and probably now spend more on clothes, hair and products than many men my age. I'm not sure whether I was influenced by my Mum, who trained as a dress designer and had a short career in the industry. My sister is a graphic designer and layout artist who worked predominantly in the fashion world. 'You think your job's tough but try getting a supermodel out of bed at 5 a.m. for a sunglass shoot.' If I let things slip she will have a quiet word and tell me what I should do (usually something very small) to show I know what it's all about. Those sideboards needed to be an inch longer. I wasn't one of the Thompson Twins.

When my sons were teenagers one went to a school with no uniform. All the students seemed to dress the same. One went to a uniformed school where individuality was expressed in coloured socks or wearing the tie strangely. Chambers Gigglossary describes fashion as '...a means of expressing one's individuality by wearing and doing exactly the same thing as everybody else.'

In the Texas Commerce Bank the bankers '...are conservative gentlemen and they are obliged to obey a 23-page dress code, a veritable Koran of corporate dressing.' (Tony Parsons 'Dispatches from the Front Line of Popular Culture, 1994)

There is a minimum way to show you know what it's all about. Wear what Douglas Coupland in Generation X labelled an 'Anti-victim device (AVD): A small fashion accessory worn on an otherwise conservative outfit which announces to the world that one still has a spark of individuality burning inside:...' To move from the 1990s to the present day, I think that's what Lady Hale (pictured) is up to with her famous broaches.

Most of us who enjoy the attempt at being fashionable probably started young. Which means there are some appalling, but thankfully pre-social media, photos of me making an effort mimicking the Tremeloes (pictured), on a non-uniform day in the late 60s. Buying yellow loons and making myself develop the personality to be seen in them in 72. Massive stack shoes and kipper ties in the mid 70s culminating in my wedding photos.

I haven't forgotten about the other two things. Let's get to them. We were on a winter holiday in Castle Combe recently, staying in a cottage on the village square. Each day we saw from our window a number of tourists pitch up and look around. One group, ethnically east Asian in appearance, were dressed much better than any of the others. And, to show I am culturally aware, a look known as preppy amongst Japanese girls and young women is popular. Whilst many tourists photographed the pretty village, this group photographed themselves with the village square as backdrop.

One guy must have been cold. Boat shoes. No socks. Thin baggy chinos turned up twice. He was carrying a dog. The dog wore a cricket jumper. The dog was a bag. The bag, which we googled, was a Thom Browne. It retails at £2,690. You read that right.

I filed that away in the 'ways I will never use money' section of me until a TV programme I accidentally watched in the unnecessary-extravagance-on-Alderley-Edge genre. A well-off family were having a small party for which they had rustled up caterers, live entertainers, a dog-groomer ('so she doesn't feel left out') and a wardrobe consultant, a man dressed in several layers and textures of white, plus jewels.

At one point the presenter, who was also getting a makeover for the party, asked the fashion guru 'Aren't you hot in all that?'

The  reply:

'It's fashion darling, It's not meant to be comfortable.'

So, for what it's worth:

You can spend too much on an outfit. Spending alone will not make you cool. You could end up preppy, or even Dolly but without the self-deprecation.

People who can afford expensive, timeless clothes spend less on them than those who buy cheap and seasonal. See the Terry Pratchett Sam Vines boots theory in his book Men at Arms. Expensive clothes last longer but there is a tipping point beyond which you can pay to look stupid when you think you're paying to look good.

If you are in sales, or at an interview where you are selling yourself, you need to match your customers' expectations if you are to sell to them. A young man I knew was told he could have a job as an MP's research assistant but he needed to remove his ear-stud. This was late 1980s. We've moved on from that and nobody blinks at most piercings any more. We've also moved on from the attitude discussed in Cosmopolitan in September 1994 '...dressing for success is a moral imperative for men and women'. A moral imperative? It was never one of those. But you will fail a live appointment process in the first ten seconds if your fashion isn't pitched right. Can you sell yourself better?

I think it's stupid not being comfortable but this includes being mentally comfortable that you can bear what you're wearing. I have a pair of electric blue trousers which I love but I can't mood-match them very often. You need to feel good about feeling good.

If you don't like talking about clothes you probably didn't get this far and never normally notice that I care.

As the French philosopher Barthes said '...fashion exists only through the discourse about it.'

Quite so.

The R Word

A funny thing happened the other day. Something that hasn't happened in January for maybe 40 years. You may ponder. I'll tell you later.

I've been retired (that's the R word) for two weeks now. I've noticed a few weird things, such as finding myself reading a newspaper on the day of its publication. Ages since that happened. Also my head. I am normally thinking ahead. Pondering what needs to happen next, tomorrow and eventually. There is currently no eventually and little tomorrow in here. I've planned supper.

I was chatting to Gary the plumber this morning, back for his annual visit to fix the toilet in our family bathroom, a place that's a triumph of style over function. Told him how I didn't want to be the sort of person who complained about trivialities. 'What, writing strongly worded letters?' he said. Exactly. Not that. Please. Let me carry on caring about the fight to save liberal democracy and not if a Waitrose carrot deteriorated faster than usual.

A local friend has just won a long-standing battle to obtain funding and permission to have his house altered to take into account the degenerative disease he has. He doesn't need it now but will do soon and when he does he won't be able to cope with the disruption of the alterations. He told me, with a twinkle in his eye, 'I don't think they realised how much time I had on my hands.' Having an empty diary gets results, sometimes. Strongly worded letters are not totally irrelevant.

Another couple of locals, in retirement, became people of such repetitive regularity that they always did a walk on Thursday, the chores on Saturday morning and the shopping on can't remember but it was time-tabled. Thing is, I can see now how having some structure provides a week with routine. Flip-side is that if it is all routine and only routine the days, so I'm told, pass very quickly and before you notice you're routinely dead. By all means have some fixed points but don't get them stuffed and mounted. I will in future read on a Tuesday (the day in my working life most likely to have had some space for study) unless you have a better offer or there is an emergency. Likewise Fridays, a rest day for the last fifteen years or so, will continue to be a day free from jobs. Our bio-rhythms mandate it.

I am good at packing up and handing over, or at least I think I am. The process of thinking about who would do various jobs I used to do helped me stop thinking about them when I finished. How do I know that thing will not be forgotten? Because I remembered to pass it on to someone who is reliable. That's the best I could do. That said, I am surprised how little I have thought about my old duties. It helps that I have received no phone calls or emails (yet) asking 'What did you do with the...?'

So my first two weeks have been relaxing and the list of things to do is getting pruned. It is nice to be able to cut down on duties and jobs. I'm not quite like a colleague who told me he was going to make a New Year's resolution to ruthlessly eliminate hurry. I asked him why he couldn't eliminate hurry slowly. But I am slowly slowing down and looking forward to a couple of weeks holiday away coming up soon.

So. The thing that was weird. Another friend invited us to come for the weekend some time before Easter. And after taking a moment to enjoy the idea of going somewhere for the weekend I found myself asking a question the answer to which I would normally know at this time of year:

'When's Easter?' I honestly didn't know.

More when we get it.

Influential Books

I love reading the question and answer interviews in Sunday supplements. Given how unlikely it is that anyone will ever want to publish my answers I thought I'd have a go at the question about 'influential reads'. I reckon all books influence me, even if it is to eliminate the author from my future enquiries. But what tomes really changed me? If we are honest they are rarely the books alleged to be 'improving'.

Here are ten. They may not be quite the top ten because I didn't want to overthink. I may do ten more later. The order, by the way, is the order in which I read them:

Aboard the Bulger
Ann Scott Moncrieff
1935

Not very old I was taken to Selly Oak library by my Dad. Here I was amazed. We didn't have many books in our house but Dad was always reading. So this is the secret. Borrow them and take them back. For nothing. Wow. This was the first book I borrowed. I read it wrapped in an eiderdown on my bedroom floor in front of an inadequate electric fire.

The Hitch Hikers Guide to the Galaxy (Increasingly improbable trilogy)

Douglas Adams

1979

Adams probably stands in a long line of great word-play authors but I had slowed my reading habit between the age of 12 and 18, perfectly undoctrinated by a school literature list which failed to move this adolescent teenage male at all. I read nothing but cheap thrillers from 1973-1979. Then this. Someone told me I should read it so I didn't because I am a recommender not a recomendee. Then I did. If writing can be like this, breaking the rules once you understand them, then it made me want to write. A few years later I had a go.

'The ships hung in the sky in much the same way that bricks don't.' One of my favourite lines of all time.

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

Robert M Pirsig

1974

The Late Review used to be tagged on to the end of Newsnight but I saw some precursor of it around the time this book was published. I probably (aged 19 or 20) thought the discussion was a load of pretentious rot. I can't recall. It would have been late night midweek and once I started work I only ever stayed up midweek to watch the footie.

Anyway I found a copy in St John's College Library sometime around 1983/4 and, as an enquiring theological student, felt that it was rebellious to read something not on any lecturer's book list. Zen Christianity has accompanied me ever since and I swear that having a cool head in a crisis is something I decided to have rather than was born with.

I also learned that there is usually a good reason why some books get reviewed and others don't.

Illywhacker

Peter Carey

1985

College, despite my previous post, did get in the way of reading for pleasure. Then, in my first curacy in Nottingham, I met some lovely new friends who helped by lending some books they had enjoyed once I had announced at a dinner party that I was fed up with the quality of my reading. At the same time I started enjoying bookshops (libraries were going a bit downhill) and (yes, design does matter) the boxed-out Faber and Faber logo always caught my eye.

This epic narrative about coming-to-terms with what Australia actually is, narrated by a confidence trickster and liar, was a lucky find. It meant a lot that, despite Carey being a double-Booker winner and well-known, I had not heard of him before I bought this book and, having now read everything he has ever written and only found one book I didn't really enjoy, feel I discovered him for myself. I always recommend him, knowing that the reaction will be a bit Vegimity.

Dispatches from the Front Line of Popular Culture

Tony Parsons

1994

This sat on the shelf above my desk for many years when I worked in the late lamented youth department of the Christian home mission agency CPAS (Church Pastoral Aid Society). All the other staff bookshelves seemed to be full of things conservative evangelicals are supposed to read. All you imagine they ever learned was the result of a massive echo chamber. It seems to me that teaching people to live the gospel in contemporary society is pretty hopeless if you have no clue how contemporary society works, what it means and who the movers and shakers are. This set of columns, articles and essays from 1976-1994 was a priceless journeymate. What does it mean to be a Christian amongst this?

Passage to Juneau

Jonathan Raban

1999

Robert Runcie - The Reluctant Archbishop

Humphrey Carpenter

1996

The Case for God

Karen Armstrong

20009

These three books changed my attitude to genre. If all travel books were written like Jonathan Raban writes I would read them all. I would read about anything if Jonathan Raban held my hand. Even a yacht journey from Seattle to Juneau.

Likewise Carpenter taught me to read biography if the biographer can write and Karen Armstrong renewed my sense of enjoyment in theology

Unapologetic

Francis Spufford

2012

Some books help like a session of psychotherapy. You rarely know which one it will be. Spufford's sub-title is 'Why, despite everything, Christianity can still make surprising emotional sense'. As I read I found that he had written what I wanted to say. Christianity does give me a place of emotional safety from where I can explore the intellectual complexities of doing theology. If I had spent the first term at College reading this it would have saved a lot of time.

Thinking Fast and Slow

Daniel Kahneman

2011

Having read a book that explained to me who I am this was the book that helped me understand everybody else. What is going on when people make decisions? How do we choose? Why do we decide some weighty matters without all the necessary information?

Well, to use a technique that the book describes, I'll answer an easier question than those. Should you read this? Yes. In fact you should study it.

Lesley Tilley RIP

For those who might be interested, this is the eulogy my sister and I prepared for Mum's funeral:

Lesley Joan Tilley 1928-2021

Lesley Base was born in Birmingham on 18th March 1928. Apart from a brief time, when she was evacuated during the Second World War to North Wales, she lived her whole life in the city.

She became adept at giving travel directions using landmarks that had been demolished, saying things such as ‘Turn left where the Bristol Cinema used to be. You know. Opposite where they knocked down that church.’

Her parents, Dennis and Janet, were lovely people although her father was somewhat strict and austere. They had to cope with several miscarriages and so Lesley was a much loved only child. She was devoted to her parents and looked after them with care in their twilight years.

She had an aptitude for art and design. Steve recalls finding his art homework much improved by her hand overnight, once.

She attended Margaret Street Art College in Birmingham where she trained as a dress designer. Some of her original drawings survive but this career was short lived. One left-over from this career was a dressmaker’s dummy which lived in an attic room for many years and scared occasional visitors if the light was gloomy.

She loved fashion and clothes and was always very smartly turned out.

She met Jim Tilley after the war when he was still in the RAF.

She was engaged to someone else at the time. But a mutual male friend brought Jim along to meet Lesley one evening. They married at Edgbaston Old Church in 1950 - the marriage lasted 49 years until his death in 1999.

The relationship introduced her to Dad’s sister Brenda, a kindly woman with what today would be described as learning difficulties. She lived with the family until Jim’s death. It also began her 50 year relationship with Jim’s family home, 107 Oakfield Road - a huge Victorian house maintained, just about. She therefore found herself looking after part, then all, of this rambling place. The existence of rooms over the garages and bells in each room in the main house suggested that the building had been used to a team of staff. She developed as a cook and did a Cordon Bleu cookery course. Jim was a very traditional eater so pasta and curry never got a look in. But meals were always great.

It was an exciting playground for Steve and Jacquie to be born into in the 1950s and Lesley admitted that she loved being a mother.

She was one of the few people to have hated the day when the kids went back to school at the end of the summer. Steve and Jacquie’s school friends speak of her kindness and welcome.

She loved having young people around her and Steve and Jacquie were encouraged to invite friends round and they were always greeted enthusiastically. Jacquie remembers endless school holidays spent with friends running around in the attic rooms and playing French cricket in the garden. Steve's football skills spoiled many fine flowers and shrubs.

As the children grew up and became independent she gave herself to entertaining and charity work, hosting many fund raisers for various causes. She was particularly active raising awareness and funds for Kidney Research; at the time a not very fashionable cause.

She was a keen supporter of both children’s chosen careers, vocally and emotionally supporting Jacquie when she went away to Art College and Steve when he was ordained.

When grandchildren came on the scene in the 1980s she threw herself into being a grandma. Ben and Jon recall how excited she always was to see them. Spending holidays with grandma and grandpa involved many days out and, of course, that house to explore.

She was part of the fellowship at St Stephen’s, Selly Park and much in demand as a baby-sitter, not least by the clergy.

She also enjoyed occasional travels - especially a trip to see her cousin Doreen in Los Angeles.

Jim died after a stroke and she was devastated. It took sometime to persuade her to downsize but she made a new home in Kelton Court. She made friends and joined the community here at St George’s for a few years. She was happy here until it became clear that her increasing confusion was the onset of dementia.

She was first cared for in her house by regular care visitors and fine neighbours. Eventually she needed residential care and Neville Williams have looked after her for the last few years, patiently dealing with a client who insisted on being known as Mrs Tilley, not Lesley.

Grateful thanks to all, paid and unpaid, who have rallied round. After having her two COVID jabs she tested positive although remained symptomless. She seemed somewhat indestructible but then on June 13th she fell asleep in her chair for the last time. Let’s face it; it’s how we’d all choose to go.

Steve Tilley and Jacquie Clinton

June 2021