threescore

I got married in the church I grew up in. It is a family church with people of various ages and backgrounds. Some people have sad stories and some people have happy stories and there are many stories of changed lives. My dad has been very involved in the leadership for some time at the church. My mum has been very involved in the music. I grew up valuing the children’s and youth work and it set me on a trajectory of hope and purpose.  

This weekend ‘my old church’ celebrates its 200th anniversary. None of the members can claim to have been present for even half that time (although you wonder, occasionally). Today we had a shared meal and a barn dance. Tomorrow there will be special church services. There has been a flower festival and there will be an article in the local paper.

Here’s the thing. The guest of honour mentioned that the church has been operating for about 10% of the life of the Church. That made me think. I have been connected with it for roughly 10% of the time it has been going. A lot has happened in that time, and that is only about 1% of the time of the history of the Church. The older you get, the more recent history becomes.

I wrestle with churcheology and with religiosity and with knowing God personally as my Lord and Saviour.  I have a nostalgia for things of ‘my old church’ for good reason, but would be loathe to see it become a mutual appreciation society which loses the plot. I would hate to see a place and a family I love so much become something alien to God’s purpose and love for the world. The fantastic thing is that it is not. A slice of the history of the church belongs there and underneath all the present stories are lives changed and still being changed by truth and God’s love.

The best testimony you can have for faith is broken people being mended. I see many lives touched by ‘my old church’ which are mended over days, months, sometimes many years. I am broken. I am being mended daily. It is all part of the continuing story.

If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

But if it is?

A chap with no school to run any more has decided to use his free bus pass to travel to Land’s End and John O’Groats.  Great idea. I would have seen where else you could get, however, as these places do not strike me as the most interesting in the British Isles.

I wonder what he does about school children misbehaving on the routes he takes? Perhaps he deliberately timed it to coincide with the staggered Easter holidays around the country.

We sa w a horse box the other day with details of an event held at High Easter and couldn’t decide between ourselves whether this was an Orthodox or a Catholic date which we had never heard of, presumably for use in years when Easter is so early.

We were wrong. As dad pointed out to me, High Easter is in Essex. Apparently it is still March in parts of Cambridgeshire. Sometimes it occurs to me that I really do not belong in East Anglia. I should get a bus pass. 30 years to go - better start planning my route.

If you are reading this Lily, your mummy is quite surprised. You are behaving so much better today, thank you. Too bad we’re not in public. That nasty cold must have gone away again. It’s a shame about the nappy smell, but we’ll deal with that imminently.

I don’t think the biometric detailing on your new passport measures smell (yet). Let’s leave that to the animals. 

Maybe we should get a cat… I would like to personally thank Charlie for his services at mum and dad’s (see today’s BBC article about health).

But I know even less about bringing up a cat than I do about bringing up a baby. And I’m pretty sure they don’t have passports in the UK (yet).

What’s that? Yawning while mummy types with one hand? Litter tray time.

in all their various forms.

I let a driver pull out in front of me because he and his passenger both wore baseball caps.

Let me quote a wise uncle of mine on the matter:

So, Happy International Pi Day (at last!)

Personally I’d prefer to call it ‘Put a Dog in your Car’ day, as I have seen three so far. And instead of March, I think ‘Wear a Hat While you Drive’ is more accurate.

Don’t get me started on drivers wearing hats. It is dad’s philosophy, and surprisingly accurate. It is not a Good Thing. Do you need to wear a hat in a car? Really?

3.14thly, dad is doing a course today on Mediterranean Fish Cookery which we bought him for his 60th and which he was not able to do until now. Results to follow, but I’m hoping he is going to show us all how it is done.

I prepared a papaya. Or was it a pawpaw?

Anyway, it had a lot of pips. Perhaps it was a business-minded fruit, out for profit over giving away freebies. Some fruit are just more business oriented, you know.

Some just give their cash away like lottery winners (seedless grapes: so new money). Some make a reasonable return (apples come to mind), and some make a profit while you’re not looking. You know, bananas, that kind of thing.

Ot moonsquirters. Ask dad. He thinks my new-found love for Charlie and Lola books will mean our children grow up learning bad English. But I think he understands why I find them amusing and that I will not ever never bring up children reading badly.

My new favourite song, since finding a £4 gem of a CD at Woolworths last week, is Alma Cogan’s In the Middle of the House. What a hoot! We do not have room for a railroad track in the middle of our property, but we do have Scalextric from time to time and I’m saving up for some Brio.

I received my first Mothering Sunday card yesterday from my daughter (whose handwriting looks remarkably like her father’s). I also got chocolates and flowers, but only at home. We did not do Mothering Sunday at church this year. Too sensitive all round, what with various sad departures and friends of ours having lost a baby when he was born in October. Clare held Lily for a while in church yesterday and always asks how she is doing. They have put up more photos of Theo on their own blog recently.

I have to agree that celebrating mothers in public, along with an excess of saccharine or lateral  TV advertisements (”Who needs daffodils Mum when you can have a Nintendo DS?”) really is unfair on many people who do not have a living mother, as well as those who have suffered in their own upbringing or route to parenthood. It rubs salt in the wound, and pretends to kiss it better.

Some people say mother’s day is unfair on fathers, although they may like to look into the history of it all. I find it quite reasonable that my dad does not approve of Father’s Day, being manufactured by such kind-hearted capitalists as Hallmark. As my husband does actually send his father a card, we shall have to see what Lily decides to do in June…

Personally I would far rather encourage and thank both of my parents for their tireless and patient work bringing me up by living a decent and honest life, full of effort for others, hard work and love for family. Where I cannot pay them back I intend to pay the reward forward to my own child and any other children later.

Including singing along with Alma Cogan, when necessary.

Four and a half years ago I promised to love, honour and obey my husband, so when he placed a veto on my returning to work full-time I did not argue. It was unlikely that anyone could have talked me into it. We have tried to be prudent and allow for a part-time return to work for me. It seemed to make the most sense to us.

I have been getting used to the idea of going back to work, by keeping myself busy and visiting local nurseries.

This week I saw my Head, who told me that he cannot offer me part-time work as he has too many part-timers on the staff. I did not see this coming. Now I have to get used to the idea that I may not be working for a while at school. So I am investigating other ideas. Maybe things are working together for the best. I guess we may (or may not) understand with hindsight. I’d like to write a book with dad. I’d also like to spend time becoming a great mum. I’d also like to work abroad, fly a plane, speak another language fluently and have more children, but all these things are going to have to wait.

Today I did not have baked potatoes ready in time for lunch (there is a long and uninteresting story behind this), but I did have many family members over. I had foresight but circumstances kept interrupting. Yesterday we drove to London without checking the traffic and took 4 hours getting there, but one and a half getting back. I did not have foresight, or food in the car. From now on I will.

Lily, who finds my sister hilarious and laughs at her pulling faces, does not worry about what she will wear tomorrow or even about the hairs on her head. She just gets on with life and having her here is a wonderful learning process. She often sleeps well as she is very calm a lot of the time, but occasionally wakes at night and panics. When she summons me she knows she is safe and will be cared for. So we take one night at a time.

Once upon a time I went shopping with dad last week. We parked in the parent-and-child parking, and as I was not a small child it was convenient that we also had Lily along with us.

Dad bought things like lentils and I bought things like chocolate and Lily didn’t buy anything but helped start conversations.

One of the things we found was a pack of game, such as one might use for making a game pie. (Not to be confused with International Pi day next month, dear reader.)

So very soon after I learnt how to make pastry and cooked a game pie. I did not pass Go and did not collect £200. It was not that sort of game. It was the sort of game where you find shot as you chew and you have to remember not to chew too hard, otherwise you take a chance and pay the dentist £100.

In order to make pastry for the first time in post-pregnancy memory, I had to use 2 egg yolks (the yellow bit) and leave the whites (the clear bit).

My husband, being a Clever Bloke, suggested that I use the remaining whites (still clear) to make a meringue. Ideally while the oven was still warm.

I read what St Delia of Norwich had to say and found the ingredients remarkably straightforward. 2 oz of caster sugar for each egg white (clear). ‘That’s fairly clear’ I thought. I did not think her idea of whisking until the eggs defied gravity suited my lifestyle of listening to a crying baby, so whusk until I felt ready to stop. At this point I added some of the sugar, and then all of it. I whusk and I whusk and I re-read the writings of St Delia and commited them to memory and I realised my error. There was no way I was going to create a meringue this way.

So I poured out the mixture (white) on to baking paper in a gooey line and cooked it. When I opened the oven this morning I discovered a surf board. So that was nice. Except it didn’t look very floaty or strong, and it was a bit little. So perhaps it was a cuttlefish in fact.

too young to know she’s young

heavying on my porcelain arm,

she laughed in her sleep

and me, rotten through with self-righteousness,

milking life for all I can:

I dreamt, and dream and lie awake again.

Musing on anniversaries

and trees - the only Elm in the parish

or the given fig, seeds sown and grown

he takes his tea

and those who can, remember jokes

and onion soup and dignity,

Old Spice and hedgehogs finding milk