In actual fact, year tens are supposed to be on work experience this week.

So, why the uniforms?

I am thinking of not dobbing in four year tens from my school who I saw playing football in the park before 3:00 this afternoon. In all honesty, more was probably achieved by all concerned (and their respective classes) by their absence from lessons and they did at least keep their uniforms on.

However, this is now in the public domain. Should any of the parents contact me, I would not deny seeing their sons taking extra-curricular PE in the beautiful weather, right next to the ice-cream stall.

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?

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any–lifted from the no
of allnothing–human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

I love this poem by e.e. cummings and thought today was a good day to post it.

My daughter is singing and blowing raspberries into my arm. Thank you God.

(Ben Witherington has a funny post today - see the side bar).

I was checking my old friend multimap.com earlier today to find my way to a baby signing group, and discovered by entering my postcode that not only can I view my house in map format (up to a very close ratio) and view a grainy satellite view (with or without road labels), but I can now take a bird’s-eye view, looking North, South, East, or should I feel like it, West.

And I’m not talking skylark view here. This is full swoop pigeon’s-eye view, or sparrow’s, if you choose to face South (in my postcode’s case) and view the property from the garden.

[Why do some birds stay roadside and some gardenside?]

I feel it has all gone too far. I looked at where I live and discovered, depending on the Chosen Direction, that I could summon the cars of Christmases past in various arrangements. One view (North) included a Fiesta that belonged to my parents a while ago. At least two views have the boy’s old sports car (sold in July 2006), but East clearly shows the Smarter new option. And there is No Sign of the University. What can I say?

Be warned - not every postcode does this. You can breathe a sigh of relief if you live in the sticks, in any county in England or Wales. By the time the aerial photography plane reaches you, you will be on to the next car I wager.

Anyway, the place I was looking for was too hard to find this way, so I just drove in the general direction and found it regardless.

William Shakespeare would have been 444 today, if he hadn’t died. But only in decimal.

I will be 11111 next month, but only in binary.

I do not have a flag to wave on this auspicious day, but I have noted how English it all is outside today - the rain is out, the road has fallen through and there is a traffic cone on the pavement opposite for no good reason. My post arrived at midday, milk went up 4p this morning and I wasn’t well enough to go to my hospital physio this morning. Neither did I have enough cash for the parking there. I am in fact reasonably pleased that dragons have not featured in my day to this point. I suppose if one did I’d have to hurry out and buy a red and white flag to wave at it to make it go away. Nasty dragons, coming over here taking our milk, breaking our roads and holding up the posties. It all makes one feel like a nice cup of tea and a sit down.

I am reliably informed that these are worth it. My source stinks of swede, but what can I say, so does Ikea.

10. Fingers

9. Archiebear

8. Skwish

7. Bluebear

6. Top of cafetiere

5. Paper

4. Concord Banana Mash

3. Mummy’s fingers

2. Baby spoon

1. Big Left Toe

I meant to put up some photos here this week, but have struggled to upload them to t’internet since wordpress changed the internal workings of the blogs. I will talk to a man who Understands these things and normal blogging will hopefully resume soon. In the meantime, please hum a pleasant tune to yourself and count daffodils.

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.

And, on average, the crew were boys last Sunday. With a baby, priorities do change somewhat.

Yesterday we had another exciting adventure in the story of Lily. We went to see two uncles, two aunts, two Sarahs, four alpacas, six goats, a number of chickens including a scary rooster called Admiral and a fox. We managed the whole day in real nappies. Not me, Lily.

I am thinking I need a daily routine, but when she is busy meeting so many people and travelling around, sleeps and feeds aren’t so easy to maintain. Maybe I’m too laid back. In the past I probably cared about which was the pestle and which was the mortar, but now I’m just happy if they are used to make interesting and/or junior cuisine c/o Lily’s daddy and uncle. Maybe I did know and forgot.

To kick-start my brain back I have decided to reinforce my NT Greek reading, by joining a local group. I am the youngest member and rely on my interlinear still, but have to say the academic social scene is just what I’ve been missing. If weaning continues to be a success I may get to the next few meetings on my own. It would make a change from just philosophising.