Welcome News

Good morning and welcome to St Whatsits on this beautiful spring/summer/autumn/winter morning.

Good morning and welcome to St Whatsits. It's a (dull/wet/miserable/god-forsaken) day out there but we have a warmth of fellowship in here.

Heard those? I have a bit of trouble with the gushy sentimental opening line of a church service - well intentioned I'm sure - which suggests it is wonderful to worship the Lord on a day when the sunshine lifts our spirits or that the worship is an antidote to gut-sapping weather.

My problem? My spirit is not particularly bound to meteorology. Granted this England has provided consecutive weeks of summer greyness, which is the teensiest bit depressing although mainly because I like shorts and T-shirts. Other times I am longing for rain after weeks of drought and the 'beautiful summer morning' line feels insensitive. And when I have hay-fever I want the weather outside to be frightful and the fire so delightful and I don't care who disagrees.

So many more things than weather come into a church service with me and affect my capacity to worship. I'm a big fan of 'Good morning and welcome to St Whatsits' followed by a singable hymn/song and a few minutes for the liturgy to do its work. Then I might be able to get in touch with how I actually feel, regardless of the rain and its sweet memories.

And I don't know where you put the notices either.

Thought for the Day

As delivered on a cold morning at BBC Radio Bristol just now:

How well prepared should you be for something that happens once in a lifetime?

It is easy to be prepared for terrible weather if you live in a place where the weather is consistently the same sort of terrible every year for four months. Would you be so concerned to invest in the latest snow-removing technology if the machine is likely to become obsolete before you need it?

Jesus posed a couple of questions to his followers. In one he suggested that no-one builds a tower without first working out if they can afford to finish it. Otherwise the half-built structure stands as a memorial to their incompetence.

On the other hand, he said, no-one goes into a battle they cannot possibly win. They negotiate terms.

With some things you figure out if you can afford to. Others, if you can afford not to.

Of course Jesus wasn't talking about towers, battles - or snow for that matter. He was talking about the ultimate statistic. One out of one people die.

Sit down and work out whether you can risk not being a Christian. If you're wrong and head into life's battle unaccompanied you may lose big time.

Likewise sit down and work out if you are in a position to make a commitment to a life's service. Otherwise your half-built life will bear witness to your poor discipleship.

Fancy being a Christian? You can't hack it. You're not tough enough.

Not sure that advertising campaign would get many responders. Or would it? I bet there'd be people up for a challenge.

Come and join my church. It's hard work, there's no salary and if you tell people what we believe they'll mainly think you're bonkers. That's the truth. But maybe you couldn't handle the truth.

Thought for the Day

As delivered at BBC Radio Bristol this morning:

A clergy friend of mine posted on Facebook at the weekend. 'If this post gets 100 likes I will preach wearing a bikini.'

His post was followed shortly by a note-to-self not to leave his mobile phone lying around in church.

219 likes so far and rising rapidly. I'll let you know.

But here we go. A warm, dry June day is on the cards. Scimpy clothing weather although maybe not for preachers on duty.

But I wonder? Are you the sort of person whose mood responds to the weather forecast; or do you take each day as it comes whatever the conditions?

Do you tune in to the spirit world better in a thunderstorm, a heatwave or on a dull day?

I spent several years as a child in Birmingham looking forward to my one week holiday in Weston-super-Mare. In those days it was at least a three hour drive and I'm sure my sister and I moaned, 'Are we nearly there yet?' every ten minutes or so.

One of the sure signs we were nearly there was driving across Clifton Downs and then dropping down to the gorge and passing under the suspension bridge.

Well it's a warm and sunny Thursday morning and I've driven in the opposite direction of my childhood dreams to be here. The weekend weather is promising. We are 'nearly there' in flaming June.

The Bible tells us God can use weather effects to communicate. But watch out if he doesn't speak through the earthquake, wind or fire. There may be a still small voice of calm whispering in your ear. It may not be telling you to display your flesh in the pulpit, but do try and listen to it.

Hot or Cold?

Which makes you more uncomfortable? Too hot or too cold? I sometimes wonder if our genetic material makes us either Roman or Viking? Scandinavian blood is likely to be happier with the cold and will find the heat unpleasant. Mediterranean, vice versa.

In winter people often get confused by my answer to the question, when I don't look sufficiently clad for the the temperature, 'Aren't you cold?' This is because I usually say 'Yes' then do nothing about it. I quite like being cold. I work well when the temperature is low. I get a creative buzz, find reading and study easy and do not invest much energy in getting comfy.

But in summer when I am hot it steals my mind. Being sweaty, sneezy (curse you hay-fever) and in permanent need of a drink stops me from doing other things. I slow down. I need to re-organise my life to include a siesta (ideally) and showers at other times of day than morning. I don't want to read because I need to fidget.

This is not a moan. I like the existence of summer because it seems to help others. I like the variety of changing seasons which help you to see the world in a different way. But frankly I'll take May and September in my world, if I ever get a chance to build it, and the bits in between can be missed.

It's going to be a beautiful day.

Weather

Why do you talk about the weather so much in England? I've been asked this a few times, mainly by continental friends or west-coast Yanks.

If it was 20c every day with rain falling in April only we'd probably not discuss it. But this morning we had overnight heavy wind followed by torrential rain, hail, lightning and thunder. Now it is looking slightly sunny.

We are blessed with not living in a part of the world where the weather makes a serious annual attempt to take your life, but also where it is not so predictable as to be dull.

I think it is part of what makes us adaptable and creative as a people. And on that note I'm going to get some writing and cooking done.

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.

Weather

A few years ago Trendlewood Church began having a weekend away at home. The aim is purely social - lots of events to which people can be invited as guests - and from Friday evening to Sunday lunch there are several things from which to chose. You can go to all the events or none.

Saturday day time involves several outdoor events and the weather forecast for BS48 was really grim. We were promised light rain from 10.00 until 15.00 then heavy rain. As it happened all the event organisers went for it and a day on the beach, a cycle ride, a tacky shopping trip and a walk in the country all involved more sunscreen than umbrella.

Three minutes after we got back from our walk the heavens opened and the heavy rain began, persisting all evening so that a barbecue was, as usual in England, enjoyed huddled under gazebos.

Sunday's forecast was equally poor and a huge shower fell at about 0900 so we took the decision to move our lunchtime picnic in the park to our house. It was lovely all day and I have never seen so many people sitting on the chairs in our garden while children played board games in a sweltering conservatory. Not a drop of rain had fallen by dusk.

Today the forecast says 'light rain' for 0700. It is a beautiful Somerset morning and I am about to put the washing out for a bit. If we can't even get the weather that is happening right now correct what chance have we got of forecasting it?

Summer

From a very early age I learned to dread the expression, 'It's going to be a beautiful summer's day.' For me, early summer means hay fever. Only a short season, but a bad one. I have a control mechanism. For a couple of weeks a year I try to stay indoors and keep the doors and windows shut. It used to be Wimbledon fortnight but that seems to have become later, or the spores start earlier. Then we started timing our annual leave to match it. The pollen season has started before that too. So please be aware that, despite the non-drowsy tabs I've popped, you will feel that I am more not-quite-there even than usual for a few days.

Simple Language

We may not have quite deteriorated to the point where a window cleaner is required by law to be known as a transparent wall maintenance engineer but we have had some fun with our snow language haven't we?

To summarise, we have a had a major snow event as part of an extreme weather situation and in the theatre of disruption there are many localised incidents.

A man on the news just complained that there was a jack-knifed lorry on the M1 and it was ridiculous because all the traffic was now stationary. Call me stupid but I reckon that was because there was a jack-knifed lorry on the motorway.

The stockpile of salt, which hasn't been touched in the south-west for 18 years, may run out. There's always a danger of that when you use something.

15,000 people have called the emergency services because of snowballs. Crazy country. Bonkers .

Rector Idol

For those who are from outside our situation I am pleased to tell you that the audience elimination programme to find a new Rector of Holy Trinity and Trendlewood, Nailsea has a clear winner although we cannot announce a name for a bit. Etiquette has it that both churches (the one being left and the one being joined) are told at the same time.

There are also a few formalities to be gone through such as the operation to remove charisma and putting a watch back twenty years. Please laugh now or I'm in trouble.

Meanwhile the snow which appears to have stopped Britain singularly fails to have any impact on this particular North Somerset valley although the town did look as good as it has ever looked for about two hours this morning.

Sorry

Look I'd like to apologise right. It's my fault. Purchased stylish convertible car. Sun disappears. Purchased membership of health club with outdoor pool. Temperature plummets.

Now all this rain has caused the gutters at Tilley mansions to oveflow and post-rainfall we were faced with an annoying drip for three weeks (fit your own punch-line in here).

Gutters now fixed by Rob and Martin. Rob directs and stands on end of ladder. Martin climbs ridiculously-angled ladder and works over the possibility of falling through conservatory roof and staining the sofa a bit red.

That was two weeks ago. Martin and sofa survived. Has it rained since? Has it heck.

If you wish to know the local weather - local to me that is - please call and ask me what I am intending to do next. It will be a big clue.

New Wet

Small bits of old Japanese cars fall from the sky.

Drizzle, downpour, spitting, spotting, cats and dogs, pelting, belting down, buckets, monsoon, swamped, splashed, soaked (to the skin), shower, heavy rain, rainfall...

Popped out of a training day in Wells yesterday to get some air at lunchtime and, although it had been a day of several showers, or 'normal' as we increasingly call it round here, I did not take my umbrella and my showerproof coat turned out to be of limited use in a monsoon.

I wasn't the wettest. One guy got so wet he made his excuses and left at lunchtime. I had taken a thin jumper in case it was chilly so I changed into it for the afternoon while my coat and shirt dried on a rack and my shoes and trousers quietly steamed on me.

Today I don't know whether to take sun-glasses or a torch. Umbrella or sun-hat. All four? Soon we will have as many words for rain as the Inuits allegedly have for snow.

Oh I nearly forgot. The Japanese cars. It's raining Datsun cogs. Sorry.

Weather God

Thanks to Bishop Gene Robinson I now have the perfect answer when asked, as a priest, to do something about the weather. 'Sorry mate; I'm in sales not management.' Brilliant.

Driving

Can I just say, and it's my blog so I can, that the 300 miles I drove yesterday, Nailsea to Birmingham to Broadway to Birmingham to Nailsea, were the worst summer all-day driving conditions I have ever experienced. Not a glint of blue sky. Not a sign of rain stopping at all. Two hold ups on the motorway for accidents. Whilst showing my mother round Snowshill Manor a bird shat on my head and in the context of the day's driving that didn't seem so bad. Mum fired a lamb and mint sausage across the National Trust tea rooms in an over-enthusiastic piece of cutlery use and compared to the day's driving it wasn't even embarrassing.

Charles Wade would have got on well with my Mum. He compiled a collection now reduced by the National Trust to 22,000 pieces and only bought the Manor so he could house it. He lived in the outbuildings. Mum is an equally avid clutterer.

Wade collected anything. Samurai armour bought off the local plumber, bicycles, toys, musical instruments. All there and unlabelled; Wade didn't like labelling. My Mum would have taught him not to throw away back copies of the Daily Telegraph though. 'So much interesting reading.'

Anyone feeling cluttered and overpowered by material possessions should go to Snowshill. Their home will, unless they are very eccentric, feel roomy on return.

We had a Parochial Church Council meeting in Nailsea last night. By comparison with the day's driving it was a breeze.

Grey Friday Feeling

I'm afraid I'm going to head for catharsis corner and get it out of my system by gibbering a bit . Don't feel you have to read.

Fact is I'm a bit irritated by the general greyness of today. It's not that almost bright, about to be less grey, grey. Neither is it that dark, foreboding, about to absolutely piss down grey. It isn't a still, quiet, solemn grey. Nor a windy, exciting, wonder what weather is around the corner grey. It is simply a bit breezy, a bit not bright, a bit not sombre and a bit not pre-storm. It's just grey. If it was moody grey it would be creative.

Today is one of those days when you are forced to look at England through grey-tinted glasses and wonder why we don't have as many words for grey as Nanook allegedly has for white stuff. We probably do. Dulux, I imagine, employ someone to think of names that aren't grey such as slate, ferric, stone or charcoal. But today even the bright blooms of cheerfulness in the garden are a greyey yellow.

If today was human it would be hanging around on a station platform in an unremarkable way wondering why the train was a bit late. Then the train would turn up so slightly behind schedule that one of the tuts of a tut tut would be unnecessary. Nobody would notice it board anyway.

I even put grey clothes on without thinking about it. Then I hurt my back a bit. Not enough to go to sleep with pain-killers. Not enough to see a doctor. Just a wee tweak which has made it unlikely that I will be moving swiftly for a couple of days. I watched a movie. Broken Flowers. Good in a grey sort of way. Now my prose is like a grey, grey something that doesn't rhyme with prose.

Soon it will be dark. But it will be a kind of grey dark. Starless, starless night; paint your palette grey and grey.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not depressed or anything. Grey is part of life's spectrum. I have no dog I need to shoot.

The only glimmer of good so far is the return of the blogger spell-checker, restored with as little explanation as it vanished and totally unable to decide how to help me with greyey.

May tomorrow dawn with a visible sun. Thank you. I don't feel better now but I feel that something important is done.

Warning

Sitting here in my warm house with dry feet it may be a bit cruel to pick holes in other people's moans. However, ordinary people, vox popped on local news programmes complaining about the speed at which warnings were issued for the current flooding, need to understand that you can't, as far as I'm aware, relocate a water treatment works in seven days.

And you can't pour more money at a metre of water. In fact you can probably only redirect money once contingency funds are exhausted. But you do have to wait for the levels to go down.

If these flood levels are the worst since records began (and records began at various times in various places and some authorities started official records quite late) then should we build our infrastructure to withstand 100 year highs, 500 year highs, 1000 year highs...?

As I write, my friend David Wickens, to my surprise, has just become a bit more famous than he probably wanted as he has been interviewed on the Today programme. He is now the guy at Severn Trent Water responsible for getting things sorted. He did well considering he probably hasn't slept much recently. For many years he used to tell people he looked down drains for a living, as a pollution control engineer. Earning his salary this week I reckon.

But to continue, a building with a 100 year life needs to be weighed against an occurrence that happens once every five buildings or every ten. It is possible that one day here it may rain more than it has just now? Yes. Should we live on stilts? Well no. Realistic disaster management anticipation sacrifices some houses from time to time.

I'm sorry if your tele is floating at the moment. I know people will do their best to warn you if it is going to happen again, but if you live on a flood plain it might. It just might. And you probably ain't gonna get a levee big enough to stop it unless taxes, or water bills, go up substantially. Oh yes, and since our water companies were privatised we will probably have to pay for some of the clean up operation.

Floods

No laughing matter what some people are enduring. Have chatted to a Cheltenham person today rushing to finish the administration for a major event before the water and electricity get cut off. Have chatted to a friend in the Forest of Dean who reckons his house is about to become a resort-on-Wye.

All the more remarkable that we ran our Saturday skate festival in dry weather and all my guests arrived over the weekend for a family get together. Junior, off to Japan next week, couldn't get to his friends get together in Leamington Spa because, although the rail lines from Exeter to Warwickshire were clear, they had no trains down there yet.

In the midst of this, how about this deprivation-laden quote from the BBC news site. 'We had to collect our children from school in our racing hovercraft, as all the roads into and out of the village were blocked.'

Find the accompanying image here.

Autumn

I can't remember an autumn like this one. It is mild. Few leaves are hungry for the wind and most are hanging onto their branches as if they are trapeze artists for whom letting go would be life and death. The bright red berries make suburban pyracantha look like steroid bulked body-builders.

In researching the spelling of pyracantha I discovered that the berries are edible; recipe suggestions here. I'd love to make more jams and jellies (and puds and cakes) but it seems to me that anything you add over a kilo of sugar to is not going to do much for your life expectancy. It is just about the only thing I could do with my crab apples next year though. This year we arrived too late and had to compost the lot.

I have now learned that the weather here is unpredictable, even by the BBC local web-site. If the rainy symbol appears there I now go to the animated map and watch how far away the rain clouds are and how fast they are travelling. This method meant that today, a predicted rainy day when I would normally have kept washing inside, has seen it blowing in the garden breeze until now (3.30 pm).

I'm enjoying living so close to rural even if I am in suburbia. Next piece of research needs to be mushrooms and truffles. Free food. Bit of a theme.

Autumn

Pegging the washing out in the garden the smell on the breeze of early-morning rot and decay left me with my first sense of autumn. Those who get disappointed about such things will say we've had no summer but they are probably only counting sun-bathing days which have indeed been few. We certainly seem to have had disappointingly few meals on what we laughably call the patio this year. August 30th is maybe a bit early.

I don't particularly like summer. For me it means insect bites, sweaty nights and hay fever. Often, before I go to sleep, whatever season, I lie on top of the bed reading. This conversation ensues from time to time:

Liz: Aren't you cold?
St: Yes.
Liz Why don't you get into bed?
St. I'm happy being cold.

If there's anything in it then my genetic background is almost certainly Scandinavian and Liz's Mediterranean. It would make quite a nice movie if two different conquering races found unity through the love of two people. Pity about the 400 year time lapse. It would have to be an American movie for that not to matter.

Second disappointment is that whilst Liz's pleasant curves and full lips are convincingly Latin I would have made the northern hemisphere's most laughable Viking. 'This rowing is giving me such blisters. ' Perhaps I could have founded a small, horned-hat cleaning company or Rape and Pillage - Longship Renovation Services. I wouldn't have done any of the work myself of course. (Lars, if you read this it's nothing personal.) My name would probably have been St Stson (requires some thought but very funny when you get there).

There is a lot to be said for Viking planning. Management consultant Bryn Hughes describes it as the simplest form of planning there is, revolving as it does around two fixed points.

Point 1. Fjords melt. Take ships, sail away, plunder
Point 2. Get back in time for fjords freezing over. Clean boat. Spend booty.

As he said, many churches still operate Viking planning systems but the fixed points are now called Christmas and Easter.

So I am happy it is nearly autumn. September is one of my favourite months with the annual reminder that I no longer have to attend school. This year it also includes 9 days in the Mediterranean - the only place Lizzie truly relaxes while I cover myself in anti-insect spray and dream of fjords.

Meanwhile it is Holiday Club week and we have turned the church into a mediaeval castle in order to tell children about Jesus. A Premier-league time lapse truly, compared to my marriage. I am the piano player (so don't shoot me) and the theme song is to the tune of Amarillo.

Katey: Don't you hate it?
St: I hated it the first time round.
Katey: You're that old?

Let the indoctrination (oops I mean teaching) commence.

Joke of the week (by Jo Brand)
How do you know if it's time to clean the house?
Check in your pants. If there's a penis in there it isn't time.

Weather

What sort of weather would make us Brits happy in Britain? Perhaps a constant 20 degrees with a light breeze and a sharp shower to water the plants between 4 and 5 a.m. A cool autumn with a slightly harsher wind to get the leaves down and blow them into neat piles followed by a mild winter until one agreed week below freezing around Christmas with a light covering of proper snow that never turns to ice or slush. Then a cool but mild early spring followed by a constant twenty degrees and a light breeze May to September with perhaps one cloudy day a week as a nice change.

I have never cared about the weather. I love the variety and the sense of unknown each day brings. In this hot spell I am sitting in my airless study sweating but it isn't a problem. I have a tap full of water and a shower plus plenty of clean clothes. My health club has a nice pool.

In this country we like complaining and queuing. Football season starts today. No complaints.