ME19four: life, faith and role-playing games
Friday, June 15, 2007
On London
I had earlier this week one of those things that has been increasingly rare of late. That was a trip into London. As a man who is on record as saying that he would rather work abroad than in London that may seem a little strange. Maybe I've changed, but I still wouldn't want to have to commute into the Big Smokeless.
The occasion for the trip was our annual Deanery Chapter excursion. The first one I did was to the London Institute for Contemporary Christianity two years back, and it was a good day. Last year we managed a tour of the Houses of Parliament and an hour or so with Lord Anderson of Swansea on the role and place of Christians within Parliament, which was also highly enjoyable and stimulating, even if we had to concentrate over the lobbying of protesters using the novel approach of taking to the Thames with loudhailers to make their point.
This week it was St. Paul's Cathedral for the adptly-named "Super Tour" preceded by half an hour or so with the lovely Lucy Winkett (am I allowed to say that? Oh well, I have!) After looking slightly harrassed and apologising profusely for not being able to give us more time, we were treated to a short account of how things work "from the inside", about the ways the Cathedral is trying to engage the visitors in the liminality of the cathedral, the thin-place between earth and heaven, rather than being a mere tourist attraction, museum or architectural glory.
It was all rather encouraging and "helpful". Did you know for example that of 1.7 million people who visit the cathedral in a year (yes, 1.7 million!) that the majority are worshippers rather than tourists? (1m) I didn't! Then there was all the stuff about how you re-order the worship in such a place and the need to put in a new organ console, so that the organist can actually see the choir in Eucharistic worship, and so on.
The tour was highly enjoyable too, contemplating John Donne's memorial (carved while he was still alive and lying in a coffin to simulate death, no less), the incongruity of gorgeous Byzantine ceiling mosaics juxtaposed with clear glass in the windows. Not to mention the veritable biographic treasure trove that is the crypt: the likes of Hubert Parry and Antony Van Dyke, and Florence Nightingale (one of only three women to be buried there) between the solid, no-nonsense Cornish stone tomb of the Duke of Wellington and the rather extravagent casket seized by the crown from Cardinal Wolsely before being used to house the mortal remains of a very different national icon, Viscount Horatio Nelson. You could spend many a happy hour in the presence of the memorials to the departed - although what I found most moving was the memorial for UK personnel killed in Korea, facing the late nurse Nightingale.
After a decision to tramp the hundreds of stairs to the Whispering Gallery, the Stone Gallery and up to the Lantern I made the most of the opportunity to do a little eating and shopping near Leicester Square. To get there needed a quick trip on the Tube (which I always enjoy, proof that I've never travelled it in the rush hour, I suspect!) and then a random to decision to alight at Covent Garden and walk to Seven Dials to find my restaurant of choice. If I hadn't still have been feeling slightly fatigued from the stairs of St Paul's I would probably have taken the tannoy warnings about not using the stairs in the tube station ("the equivalent to a 15 storey building") as a worthy challenge!
Unable to find the delights of The Souk unaided (I was working from memory, after all - and one that had been operating through a gentle alcoholic haze at the time!) I was forced (such hardship!) to confront the Role-Playing goodness of the competent and accessible Orcs Nest first. Having parted with a modicum of credit for the Traveller 1248 setting material and Mongoose RQ Glorantha 2nd Age (and inexplicably failing to pick up the Classic Traveller reprint volume of the final installment of the Journal of the Travellers Aid Society) I obtained directions to my chosen food outlet. And very pleasant it was too! I can think of fewer simple pleasures than eating houmous and pitta bread to the accompaniment of a good book and a cold beer on a hot day!
It was the sort of day that I don't, and can't afford to do, too often. It, and the experiences of the occasional LondonGlorantha outing for chat, beer, more chat, more beer, food... and more beer, will mean that I will miss London when we finally do escape from MLPK, unless we don't travel too far.
Still, despite the delights of the week I now have to prepare for a very different delight: the Annual Area Church Meeting. Oh well, at least I organised it in the pub and we're having a buffet supper...
The occasion for the trip was our annual Deanery Chapter excursion. The first one I did was to the London Institute for Contemporary Christianity two years back, and it was a good day. Last year we managed a tour of the Houses of Parliament and an hour or so with Lord Anderson of Swansea on the role and place of Christians within Parliament, which was also highly enjoyable and stimulating, even if we had to concentrate over the lobbying of protesters using the novel approach of taking to the Thames with loudhailers to make their point.
This week it was St. Paul's Cathedral for the adptly-named "Super Tour" preceded by half an hour or so with the lovely Lucy Winkett (am I allowed to say that? Oh well, I have!) After looking slightly harrassed and apologising profusely for not being able to give us more time, we were treated to a short account of how things work "from the inside", about the ways the Cathedral is trying to engage the visitors in the liminality of the cathedral, the thin-place between earth and heaven, rather than being a mere tourist attraction, museum or architectural glory.
It was all rather encouraging and "helpful". Did you know for example that of 1.7 million people who visit the cathedral in a year (yes, 1.7 million!) that the majority are worshippers rather than tourists? (1m) I didn't! Then there was all the stuff about how you re-order the worship in such a place and the need to put in a new organ console, so that the organist can actually see the choir in Eucharistic worship, and so on.
The tour was highly enjoyable too, contemplating John Donne's memorial (carved while he was still alive and lying in a coffin to simulate death, no less), the incongruity of gorgeous Byzantine ceiling mosaics juxtaposed with clear glass in the windows. Not to mention the veritable biographic treasure trove that is the crypt: the likes of Hubert Parry and Antony Van Dyke, and Florence Nightingale (one of only three women to be buried there) between the solid, no-nonsense Cornish stone tomb of the Duke of Wellington and the rather extravagent casket seized by the crown from Cardinal Wolsely before being used to house the mortal remains of a very different national icon, Viscount Horatio Nelson. You could spend many a happy hour in the presence of the memorials to the departed - although what I found most moving was the memorial for UK personnel killed in Korea, facing the late nurse Nightingale.
After a decision to tramp the hundreds of stairs to the Whispering Gallery, the Stone Gallery and up to the Lantern I made the most of the opportunity to do a little eating and shopping near Leicester Square. To get there needed a quick trip on the Tube (which I always enjoy, proof that I've never travelled it in the rush hour, I suspect!) and then a random to decision to alight at Covent Garden and walk to Seven Dials to find my restaurant of choice. If I hadn't still have been feeling slightly fatigued from the stairs of St Paul's I would probably have taken the tannoy warnings about not using the stairs in the tube station ("the equivalent to a 15 storey building") as a worthy challenge!
Unable to find the delights of The Souk unaided (I was working from memory, after all - and one that had been operating through a gentle alcoholic haze at the time!) I was forced (such hardship!) to confront the Role-Playing goodness of the competent and accessible Orcs Nest first. Having parted with a modicum of credit for the Traveller 1248 setting material and Mongoose RQ Glorantha 2nd Age (and inexplicably failing to pick up the Classic Traveller reprint volume of the final installment of the Journal of the Travellers Aid Society) I obtained directions to my chosen food outlet. And very pleasant it was too! I can think of fewer simple pleasures than eating houmous and pitta bread to the accompaniment of a good book and a cold beer on a hot day!
It was the sort of day that I don't, and can't afford to do, too often. It, and the experiences of the occasional LondonGlorantha outing for chat, beer, more chat, more beer, food... and more beer, will mean that I will miss London when we finally do escape from MLPK, unless we don't travel too far.
Still, despite the delights of the week I now have to prepare for a very different delight: the Annual Area Church Meeting. Oh well, at least I organised it in the pub and we're having a buffet supper...
Labels: Faith, Life, Role-Playing Games
¶ 9:44 am 0 comments
Blackbird Pie
(with apologies to Bill Bryson)
I think that most people who know me would consider me a relatively gentle soul. I mean, I have been known to terminate bluebottles, wasps and ants with extreme prejudice, but generally speaking I rarely wish ill on any one or anything for very long. Even as I write this I've had to stop and rescue a sparrow from the claws of the cat. (Not enough sparrows around if you ask me). True, I sometimes, for a split second wish that that idiot going too fast on the roads would wrap themselves around a lamp-post, but I tend to repent within a second or two. I wouldn't want to see it happen, or to have to take the funeral after all.
But these last few days are an exception. I have so longed for air-gun, a catapult or a BB gun. And what has turned the meek and mild Dr Moose into a potential killer, you may ask. The answer, as you might have deduced from the title of this piece is blackbirds. Strange, but true.
One pair have nested close to the back door, you see. In a tree just over the shed. And then there's another pair somewhere close by. So if a male blackbird is not "chuck-chuck-chuck"-ing through the glass of the utility room door at the slightest movement, or defecating messily over the swing while engaged in a eyeball-locking exercise through the kitchen window, then he's scrapping with the other male blackbird in a noisy turf war.
That is, of course, until the cat-to-whom-this human-belongs turns up, whereupon all conflicts are put on hold and the poor feline is subjected to a double dive-bombing attack.
And all this, of course, accompanied by an insistent "chuck-chuck-chuck"-ing through most of the daylight and evening hours. It is, as they say, driving me to distraction.
Said feline is a clever one, but instead of doing my dirty business for me and bringing me a balckbird on a platter, has resorted to sheltering indoors for prolonged periods of time and seeking a lap at the most inappropriate moments.
So if you hear a story on the BBC about a Vicar being had up by the RSPB, that'll be me.
Now, I must go. I wonder where GLW has hidden the spare knicker elastic and LM has put her marbles? Failing that I'm off to ASDA to buy a water cannon and give the bird a bath it won't forget in a hurry!
I think that most people who know me would consider me a relatively gentle soul. I mean, I have been known to terminate bluebottles, wasps and ants with extreme prejudice, but generally speaking I rarely wish ill on any one or anything for very long. Even as I write this I've had to stop and rescue a sparrow from the claws of the cat. (Not enough sparrows around if you ask me). True, I sometimes, for a split second wish that that idiot going too fast on the roads would wrap themselves around a lamp-post, but I tend to repent within a second or two. I wouldn't want to see it happen, or to have to take the funeral after all.
But these last few days are an exception. I have so longed for air-gun, a catapult or a BB gun. And what has turned the meek and mild Dr Moose into a potential killer, you may ask. The answer, as you might have deduced from the title of this piece is blackbirds. Strange, but true.
One pair have nested close to the back door, you see. In a tree just over the shed. And then there's another pair somewhere close by. So if a male blackbird is not "chuck-chuck-chuck"-ing through the glass of the utility room door at the slightest movement, or defecating messily over the swing while engaged in a eyeball-locking exercise through the kitchen window, then he's scrapping with the other male blackbird in a noisy turf war.
That is, of course, until the cat-to-whom-this human-belongs turns up, whereupon all conflicts are put on hold and the poor feline is subjected to a double dive-bombing attack.
And all this, of course, accompanied by an insistent "chuck-chuck-chuck"-ing through most of the daylight and evening hours. It is, as they say, driving me to distraction.
Said feline is a clever one, but instead of doing my dirty business for me and bringing me a balckbird on a platter, has resorted to sheltering indoors for prolonged periods of time and seeking a lap at the most inappropriate moments.
So if you hear a story on the BBC about a Vicar being had up by the RSPB, that'll be me.
Now, I must go. I wonder where GLW has hidden the spare knicker elastic and LM has put her marbles? Failing that I'm off to ASDA to buy a water cannon and give the bird a bath it won't forget in a hurry!
Labels: Life
¶ 9:14 am 0 comments
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Strangers and Aliens
While I would hesitate to call myself a townie, I'm not really a country lad either. My home stomping ground in the Midlands had farmland within easy walking distance (in fact even in sight of my bedroom window for the first few years).
But my passing acquaintance with dairy farming doesn't stretch to the phenomenon seen each year here, as scores of foreign teenagers descend on eurosceptic Kent to pick the fruit crops that few of our local young people will touch.
It makes this BBC news article all that more relevant. I'm sure none of the shoppers at my local ASDA would miss the busloads of migrant shoppers who appear in the summer months, but I bet they'd miss the strawberries and fruit, sourced from within the county with great fanfare. Which appears to be a real possibility if this report is to be believed.
And why won't our own folks do the job? For the same reason that Polish Plumbers have become legendary: the relative expectations of pay and workloads.
(I'm also forced to admire Father Noel, who each year puts up signs in a variety of European languages and scripts to offer Holy Communion to any migrant workers as may wish it of an evening. I don't think he gets many takers, and I fail to see how they could understand the English of the Prayer Book, but it's a practical response to the care of the alien within our midst.)
But my passing acquaintance with dairy farming doesn't stretch to the phenomenon seen each year here, as scores of foreign teenagers descend on eurosceptic Kent to pick the fruit crops that few of our local young people will touch.
It makes this BBC news article all that more relevant. I'm sure none of the shoppers at my local ASDA would miss the busloads of migrant shoppers who appear in the summer months, but I bet they'd miss the strawberries and fruit, sourced from within the county with great fanfare. Which appears to be a real possibility if this report is to be believed.
And why won't our own folks do the job? For the same reason that Polish Plumbers have become legendary: the relative expectations of pay and workloads.
(I'm also forced to admire Father Noel, who each year puts up signs in a variety of European languages and scripts to offer Holy Communion to any migrant workers as may wish it of an evening. I don't think he gets many takers, and I fail to see how they could understand the English of the Prayer Book, but it's a practical response to the care of the alien within our midst.)
Labels: Faith, Life, Ponderings
¶ 10:31 am 0 comments
