Return of the Blog
. . . Is it still up? Is it still up? Rats. I guess I have to write a post. It’s been really epic. Last night when it first fell off the air I thought oh pfffffbt. When it stayed fallen off the air I assumed it was frelling gremlins my end, because it usually is, either this blasted laptop is having the vapours again or my connection has . . . vaporized. EVENTUALLY, after a certain amount of language and banging and stamping and the hurling of old newspapers across the room* I bethought me of a link Blogmom had sent me a while ago that will tell you if your blog is working. It ruminated briefly and then came up with YOUR BLOG IS BROKEN.
And it stayed broken. I don’t know what fabulous adventures were going on at the doohickey admin but it has to have been at least an alien invasion.*** It was dead air for several hours last night and then Blogmom tag-teamed me till she went to bed† and I picked up again in the morning, when it was still playing hide and seek with standard consensual reality.
Tonight was a little blurry in the three dimensions for a different category of reasons. I had a friend preaching at St Radegund, who assured me the service would be over in plenty of time for me to pelt on to St Margaret’s in my I-think-it-probably-counts-as-habitual by now way. No. Wrong. I’d managed to arrive late†† which meant I was tucked away at the back . . . which was a good thing when at five minutes after I had to leave to arrive late at St Margaret’s THEY WEREN’T ANYWHERE NEAR THE END. My leather jacket and I tried not to creak on our hasty way out. . . .
The three-dimensional blur, however, was in the contrast between the two services. Evening services at both churches tend to be the informal end, with audience participation from people ineligible for dog collars, and, sadly, they both indulge in the fashion for icky soggy modern Christian song rather than real music. St Radegund, however, is polite, thoughtful, reserved and grown-up. I walked††† into the Youth Group service at St Margaret’s where about twenty striplings were up on the stage with a bank of rotating coloured spotlights and a particularly loud drum kit. YAAAAAAAH.‡ As Aloysius said several months ago, one of the strengths of the Anglican church is that it holds great variety. . . .
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* A folded-up weekend newspaper is a very good object for the venting of extreme feelings. As long as you aim carefully so you aren’t taking anything with it, it makes a very satisfying THUD on the opposite wall and does neither itself nor the wall any harm. REASONS TO KEEP HARD COPY AVAILABLE. I don’t think an iPad even in its protective shell is going to like being thrown across the room against the wall very often.
** I had assumed that my connection had some excuse for megrims last night because we’d been having spectacular weather—not only hellhound-pummelling rain^ but thunder, lighting and hail^^. It was sheeting when Peter was due to go to his bridge club, so I drove him over there and on the way back watched the sky lighting up with a display that Frankenstein could have animated a whole regiment of monsters off. So, I thought, am I going to make a bolt for the monks even in this? YES. NEXT SILLY QUESTION. I wouldn’t have thought you could hear anything through the monks’ chapel walls except (possibly) the Last Trump, but toward the end of the service there was the most unholy racket, apparently of a small lake being dumped over the chapel roof, and I had a bow-wave most of the way home. It did occur to me to wonder if critters would care if the lights went out . . . but if either lights went out or critters cared, it was all over by the time I got back. But I was not really surprised to begin with that the blog wouldn’t connect. It seemed almost more surprising that everything else would.#
^ Pav gets a little flat-eared and oppressed-looking by the time the floodwater is brushing her belly, but she’s generally willing to take the weather as it comes, and I don’t think she recognises pummelling, by rain, hellhounds, or anything else. Hellhounds, on the other hand, in wet weather are already going into their tragic postures while I’m still locking the door and we haven’t got down the stairs to ground level yet. And poor Pav doesn’t even have a raincoat—she has a hand-me-down waterproof fleece from a hellhound puppy but that’s only for serious penguin weather—I’m waiting for her to STOP GROWING.
^^ Among my least favourite memories of the old house is having the garden in full summer hurrah torn to shreds by a hailstorm. This didn’t happen often, but it happened a few times in the thirteen years I lived there—once, even more anti-memorably, less than week before an open day.
*** @robinmckinley also tweeted: AM TOTALLY W THIS SUGGESTION @Ladykuro Mayb it’s battling monsters frm another world, mayb hv guest blogs frm Other World when it gets back
# Wall? Garden wall? What about it? Oh, the gigantic hole? That’s been there forever. We hired someone to rebuild it, but we haven’t seen him around for a while. We think he drowned.
† Hey. I go to bed early Saturday nights. Because I am naturally perverse . . . no, no, because I seem to have re- or de-morphed back into a regular New Arcadia Sunday morning service ringer. I couldn’t stand the combination of Niall’s accusatory stare over handbells and listening to four or five bells ringing on Sunday morning. Funny how penetrating the sound is even through several pillows. I’m still an official member of the abbey band^ —as well as officially persona non grata with the New Arcadia admin, as evidenced by the fact that they rang seven out of their eight bells for the wedding yesterday.
^ The equally accusing stares of the ladies in the portraits overseeing the abbey AGM are still vivid in my memory
†† Due to complications arising from having too many hellcritters
††† Or rather tore, nearly a quarter hour late
‡ The sermon, by the way, by one of the teenagers who comes regularly to that evening service, was brilliant.^ She will probably invent practical faster-than-light travel in a few years.
^ With the exception of the clip from CARS that was showed on screen as an alternative approach to the concept of win/lose. You all know CARS? You all know how it ends? . BLEEEAAAUGGGH. But I am an evil-tempered cow. We knew that.
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