DAILY DIARY - outages

They say that when there's a volcano in Auckland that you have about twelve hours to head for the hills. Well that's a moot point really, as about fifty of the hills are volcanoes. The idea is to head north, away from the molten lava and grimey ash. A volcanologist when asked on national television where it was likely to happen, gleefully declared some time back that it would be somewhere central like Queen Street. Her Royal Highness was not amused. If it means nothing to you, dear diary, or reader from afar, that would be any main street in any large city of the world. West Street for example, in Durban. Now that is an interesting analogy, considering that West Street has a more exotic name these days, in the form of Dr Pixley KaSeme Street. I wonder how they fit all that on those little street name signs… And of course the well-known Moore road is now Che Guevara Road, which in the local lingo (English with a thick Zulu accent and no sense of history) is lovingly called Gua Va street. I digress…
So back to Auckland City, or for the purists - Tāmaki-makau-rau. We love the fact that the earthquakes here are not too powerful. Who can forget the dramatic photograph of the last one we actually felt – of four plastic garden chairs, with one toppled over by the sheer power of the shake.
The volcanoes give you twelve hours. Which on a day like yesterday would have been a bit of a stretch. Let me start at the beginning…
Some weeks ago, in the midst of hundreds of spam emails trying to sell various medications appropriate to my age and stage, was an innocuous missive intimating that Vector, our national power coordinator, would be switching off the power on 22 June from 9am to 4pm for maintenance. I dutifully forwarded this exciting news to my co-dwellers, neither of whom really read that news, Verbal reminders exhorted them to be prepared for this outage by an early shower (you need power to fire the gas) and the engagement of their cognitive skills in considering lunch out as it was our youngest son’s 28th birthday. I don’t really thing anyone believed me. We did the shower thing though, and boiled a kettle. And even shut down mother’s PC which is allergic to such collapses in energy supply, as I got ready for work. Clunk – and down she went, as we were left in the relative darkness of the morning after the winter solstice in the southern hemisphere. I dutifully left for the “office’, and met the visiting insurance evaluator who needed to enter every room in the church and Family Centre complex, me being one of the primary keeper of the keys of that kingdom.
Things unraveled quite quickly after that. No one had considered the electric garage door. The birthday boy decided to take himself to the cinema. Transformers part XCIV or the like was a better option than sitting in the dark. Mother would hit the shops. But of course, they were not present when the installer of the new garage door motor last year demonstrated how to open the door when the power fails.
After giving assurances, dear diary, of the simple click and pull motion, I was summoned home to demonstrate. It soon became very apparent that the door was in no mood to go anywhere. And neither could anyone else. And here’s my point. When the volcano erupts, it will be helpful to be able to get in a car and head for the hills. Read: travel north. 
I will spare you all the agony of the chastisement I received. Auckland garage doors, after three phone calls over three hours, finally made it clear that there were 30 people in the queue ahead of me, and they would get to us on the afternoon of the next day. That would probably not help everyone get to work tomorrow, I explained to the very nice lady, never mind today.
My job description quickly morphed into taxi driver of the year, and off I sped. How is it possible that your family can physically wreck a garage door? - was my immediate thought. I saw the man pull the red rip-cord with my own eyes and - boom – the thing was raised in a flash.
The birthday festivities were wonderful, all things considered. The movie proved to be long enough to allow the exhausted parents of the celebrant to have lunch out on a two-for-one voucher, get home so mum could put her boots on, and ferry her to work. Fourteen texts later and the birthday boy emerged from the cinema with a bucket of coca cola in hand. When we got home later, the garage door man was there, and showed us that the Jerry-built slider had a dodgy bit that folded back on itself when you opened it a few feet manually, thus making it scientifically impossible to budge the door further. Designer fault, he declared, offering to make new bits for $150 plus GST.
Gleefully I opened the recovered door for a quick ride to the Asian Wok. The happy birthday boy had ordered volumes of nosh, and we settled into a recovery mode for the evening. Now that our youngest son is 28, it seemed appropriate for mother to knit more squares for blankets for the poor (a project at work that everyone engages in), while I watched James Bond for old time’s sake – Goldeneye was interspersed with daft advertisements none of which gave any useful advice on what to do in a volcano or when there is a power outage and you have a dicky door, but did provide time for various age and stage activities including coffee-making with real hot water, and a well-deserved family night. 
The birthday boy, exhausted from the day’s activities, had retired early. On top of having to entertain the garage door man, the poor child had a team of fixer-uppers from the church board who invaded and spent an hour or two completing the demise of the kitchen water mixer, and reconnecting kitchen cupboard hinges so that the doors no longer scraped on the floor tiles like the chalk of a rookie teacher attempting to use a blackboard. 
When the volcano erupts, head north then…

DAILY DIARY – 800 words

I don’t watch much television. I can’t really see the point. The same narrow points of view called “editorial comments”. The mindless propaganda reflecting what a friend terms the Zeitgeist - the “time spirit” of the age (Do we thank Thomas Carlyle for the term or not?) – that endless agenda without moral compass or objective truths we once held dear… the incessant bashing of all things American or at least their beleaguered leader… well actually it’s just depressing. Entertainment means violence. News means mindless repetition of - I mean seriously, have you actually listened to Patrick Gower’s analysis of anything and everything?
And then there’s 800 Words. It’s a great story of an Australian widower with two children who moves to these wobbly islands to a fictitious coastal dorpie (a little village) called “Weld”. I’m not sure what genre it’s supposed to reflect. But the cumulative effect of the nutty but lovable characters and their small-town kiwi antics is the craziest of comedies. They say it’s comedy-drama. It certainly is comic.
We did the sensible thing that you can do these days. We recorded the series. The main protagonist – George – is a journalist who writes a column of 800 words. You’ve guessed it – I’m having a go at that now. (Oh bother, this is only about 204). And the machinations, okay that’s a bit strong, the antics of the locals are a brilliant tonic in the face of my challenges at this particular time of life. And of course - record the series, and you can fast forward the adverts AND not wait a week to see what happens next. As I write of course, at 6.00am on a Saturday, my thoughts are drowned out again by a RNZAF plane flying over my roof to the local military airfield. Good grief, with so few planes that fly, do they have to shake the house so early in the morning?
So back to Weld. We all need a Woody and a Constable Tom in our lives. And we need a lot more comedy. The intriguing thing is whether anyone in America or Finland actually laughed when the series was broadcast there. Comedy, like sermon humour, is lost entirely when your listeners have no idea what normal is in your culture – thus making the funny seem uneventful. Which reminds me of a John Cleese interview I watched. He and his side-kick tell the story of how they left the UK on a visit to New Zealand in 1968, and arrived in 1868. The account of an audience full of ladies with clinking cups in a Dunedin hall (which clinking he erroneously ascribes to Parkinsons) – is quite hysterical (in the humorist sense of the word). Naturally no one laughed at all during those early Monty-python sketches. And of course, the ladies with their clinking cups were probably just manifesting what is known as essential tremor. You can’t blame Dunedin for that, or can you? On the other hand, it may have been cold and with all those Presbyterians saving on heating expenses on the mainland, well it could have been the winter shakes.
I don’t blame John Cleese for miss-blaming Parkinsons. Now Billy Connelly would have understood. Like the script writer of that other comic cleric, the Vicar of Dibley, who like Connelly is doing battle with Parkinsons, you have to find something funny about it every day. Paul Mayhew-Archer tells the story of his neurologist who explains that with PD you get about five good years. ‘Great” he replies (in words to that effect) – I haven’t had one good year yet!” (Don’t confuse him with New Zealand born co-writer Richard Curtis). Mayhew-Archer muses that you can get arrested for Parkinsons (on the assumption you are drunk) which Billy Connelly would enjoy. The challenges of a movement disorder indeed. Connelly makes a joke of the drugs that have risky side effects – like becoming more addictive to your addictions (like sex). He refused those on the grounds that he had enough trouble with that already!
Well John Cleese couldn’t get a laugh from his Dunedin tea-drinking ladies at the matinee. And I suppose some of his humour isn’t very funny when it is off the page. But you can’t criticize the genius of Fawlty Towers. And Fawlty Towers neatly sums up my week. Assuming things about the health system and how it works. Trying to explain things to people who have made more assumptions and don’t actually understand anything you are trying to say to them at all.
800 Words is a tonic. We have yet to finish the series. But there are moments when the painful yet redemptive realities of this family in Weld are far too close to the bone. Friends save the day, and save me too.

DAILY DIARY - "CUT IT OUT" Part Two.

As I was saying about going around the bend... Dear Diary, one can never be absolutely sure. It turned out that they were never going to cut it out yesterday, but will do so shortly. No - shortly does not mean in this case I am lying in a hospital bed waiting. It reminds me of that South African mystery about the difference between now, now-now and just now. Or the local enigma about the relative shortness of a long black coffee.
The surgeon is a very nice man who had a good look and confirmed what I had told the uncertain registrar that a skin graft was essential. And yes the putting your feet up for 5 days was serious as a machine would be attached to my leg to make sure the graft grafted. Did I have someone to look after me at home or should I stay in hospital for that? I quickly voted for my dear family, as one can only imagine the horror of numerous strangers plugging me in and the dreadful notion of bed baths and the like. And no I would not like a general anaesthetic thank you. It's only 45 minutes of the weird sensation of people skinning you for spares while you lie there feeling but not feeling the scalpels.
Did I ever tell you the account of my falling in love whilst in hospital? My reluctance to have a general anaesthetic goes back to the days when scoline was used on me. How was I to know i had Scoline Apnoea?? Bit of a problem when you can't resume breathing. Hold your breathe, diary. My pastoral visitor became my best friend and much to everyone's amazement we were engaged in two months and married in seven. The romance of hospital visiting... Naturally I was quite vulnerable at the time, I hasten to add...
So I am waiting again to hear when I actually will be scheduled for the "cut it out" process, and I will surely do as I am told as I recover. Being on a short list means that "shortly" includes the possibility of taking a cancellation at short notice and zipping down to NSH for the comforts of the fancy new elective surgery unit. Of course I did not meet the plastic surgeon. Pictures of lego men with bright yellow scalpels are conjured up by the term. I read that this surgery is "a branch concerned with improving the function or appearance of parts of the body through reconstructive or cosmetic medical procedures.." Closest thing to a makeover I guess. Did you know that botulinum toxin is useful to plug leaky bladders? Botox is so very versatile don't you think?
So diary, I'm not going to diarise this one this time. As soon as i hear, or very shortly after that, you'll be the first to know. Of course, whether anyone will believe me remains to be seen. I've had two interesting weeks of not thinking incessantly about a sunday sermon. How jolly nice...

DAILY DIARY... "Cut it out!"

Gosh I've missed you. Dear diary, what a month it's been. Dear diary, it's been just like a dream...
Remember that gate? The irritating one that said "keep out" and then jumped onto my car? Turns out my insurance company can't get a bean out of the building company... Could you loan me $300 for the excess? My car is in the panel shop. Oh and so am I. Almost. This irritating skin cancer that my doctor didn't believe I had because the moleman forgot to send him the biopsy results - well it's had its chips, so to speak. Of course that depends on whether the nice specialist actually cuts it out today. You just don't know do you. It gives a whole new appreciation for the term "cut it out!". Remember that? Mom and dad said it - "cut it out!" - when as kids you were up to something inappropriate. I suspect that when a child is wandering around the house looking menacing with a pair of sharp scissors, "cut it out" may not be the best injunction if you value your furniture...
I wonder where the saying comes from? Just saying... It's like "around the bend". It turns out the British built houses for storing people who didn't fit in society in large scary looking homes with a curved driveway. Out of sight, out of mind, Hence "around the bend". I get that way too. And we've had curvey driveways over the years. I recall another insurance claim which had something about a tree in the drive that attacked the car. Or course most days we drove around the tree, thus disempowering the thing.
So I'm giving the "shruggy look" about the insurance. Just get it done, I say, and best when I am not allowed to drive the car. We can both get body shopped together.
That aside, it's been a good couple of weeks. How's that for a surprise. WInter is threatening. But we don't have snow his far north. At worst we get a bit of a chilly breeze. The antidote of course is visiting Chand. Nothing like a curry to warm the cockles of your heart. O my - another weird saying. All about the snail shaped ventricles in the physical organ, Naturally it is a metaphor about feeling really nice. Curry from Chand can do that too, although mild is safer - unless you want a nuclear meltdown to warm everything a tad too much.
If it's really cold, we have a heat pump. Literally, one would expect some kind of fire with bellows. It's really a reverse air conditioner. Of course there were supposed to be two so that you don't have to huddle in the dining room. But the poor old lounge room was left out. Give a job to a committee, they say.
Enough of that. Got to get ready to attack the morning traffic and get to my appointment at 9.05am. I wondered about the time, Why not 8.45am. Or 9.07am. 9.05am it is. I will report for duty and see what the surgeon has to say about the carcinoma that has overstayed it's welcome. Kia kaha dear diary. I'll be back later to have that leftover chicken tikka massala...

DAILY DIARY - rain in Spain

It's raining. In Auckland. Well in pretty much the whole little country this Queen's birthday weekend. The rain in Spain may stay mainly in the plain, but here it actually is EVERYWHERE - like chickenman. If that makes sense to you, you have a good memory and you come from South Africa.
This is New Zealand - Aotearoa - the land of the long white cloud. The rain is horizontal, it is vertical. Well almost upwards, but mainly down she comes. Cats and dogs. In Argentina, where I have been I hasten to add, they would say: Esta lloviendo caen soretes de punta. Go figure. That's not much nicer than the French who bemoan heavy rain like this: Il pleut comme vache qui pisse. I think that should be a kiwi one considering all the moo cows we look after in our special methanic contribution to global warming. Even the Chinese speak of rain excrementally: 落狗屎
Well it's bucketing down now. In Slovakia they would say "tractors are falling". It's going to be a pretty wet messy weekend, weather wise - and it is Queen's birthday long weekend too! Hit the shops everybody. The sales will be amazing!
And we have messy church tonight too. Most appropriate. We're looking at the parable of the sower. Should work in the rain. If you have not heard, messy church is a Friday night monthly gathering of a faith community where we do stuff - creative, messy and wonderful, across the generations - so good to let people make a mess with liberty. And we learn about God and grow in faith. Good deal I suspect, since you can bring your own favourite take away grub and catch up with your mates.
Well it's raining everything now. Old women with clubs, pilot whales, puppies and chairs, frogs and more tractors. Welcome to New Zealand. It's not just green green on the far side of the hill. It's remarkably green like the hills of Natal. Professor Higgins and Eliza would be delighted too, about the rain in Spain and on our wobbly islands. Add the abundance of volcanoes, earthquakes, and leaky homes, and I reckon we've struck gold. Sweet as....

DAILY DIARY - World Vision matters

It is entirely inconceivable that at this particular time I should make myself available to be sponsored for the 40 hour famine. In more recent efforts I have done a technology famine. That's too easy now after being off FB for 40 days at Lent. And me in my enthusiasm decided 40 hours of having my feet up after my surgery would do the trick. That won't work. Our beloved North Shore Hospital has postponed the surgery by a week, meaning I will be in a very comfortable pre-op phase over the famine weekend.
So about the PORTAL. My beloved medical team, yes where my best doctor works who probably thought I self-diagnosed my skin cancer using Dr Google or Mr Bing, keep inviting us to sign up for the PORTAL. Initially resisting for a few years on account of fears of being beamed up to some permanent zone of automated intravenous living, I succumbed the other day. Like surrendering to a persistent salesperson I scribbled my signature and exited the building. By the time i was in the car, my Japanese chariot you recall who was mercilessly attacked by a security gate at home group, the email confirmation beeped into life on my smartie phone. I was about to leap into the PORTAL.
As an aside, on my first visit to a locum to try to figure out why I was walking on one foot and one balloon, I also did the unthinkable. I stepped on the man's weighing device. With my eyes closed I said to my favourite locum, "don't tell me. Write it down. I know it's bad." Being a decent man, who of course used the result to motivate the "green prescription" we have already disblogged (discussed in bloggese), he remained tight lipped. I walked free from the consultation rooms in that sense.
So I leap into the portal. It proved useful to confirm that the trainee who had used me as a pincushion (remember me passing out in the blood chambers) had in fact discombobulated the blood (or some other similar word) and that half the tests had failed.
I leap into the PORTAL and behold - a revelation too ghastly to contemplate...
There, staring me in the face, are the terrible and frightful results of that stepping onto the human weighing device (I can't even mention its name, although the scale of shock should rather be imagined than actually measured), my WEIGHT - which screams out at me louder than that diabolical microphone on Sunday.
So about the 40 hour famine. What more can I say. If you haven't yet donated something, look on my FB page for the link. Just do it. No tech famine, and no 40 hours of post-op bedrest.
Real famine. Anything to mitigate the trauma, the abject horror, of entering the PORTAL.... I have to be beamed back to October 2016, like a computer being taken back to a restore point. At least then I could read the scales...

DAILY DIARY - "The attack"

Have you missed me? Dear diary, I've been so in-between... Okay I borrowed that line - structurally - from the Moody Blues... But it has been a more interesting couple of weeks. No gates attacking me. They say of course that the devil has a go at you from the organist's stool. Not so these days. It's technology that will break you down, or grind you to an emotional pulp. Let me tell you how that worked this week....
It's all about my left leg. Funny thing really, because the radiographer asked me today whether I had had problems with it before. No, I say - only the right leg. Three times. She prods at my veins on the left appendage and explores further the history of the right one. "O just a few breaks" I say. "And a knee that need a scope and what have you." I avoid the silly things I did that got me plastered three times (my leg in a cast, I hasten to clarify).
So the left leg also needs surgery to get rid of a BCC. Whether there is one or not is the other debate at the doctor's rooms today. The mole man didn't write a letter to the doc to tell him what the biopsy found. Of course the terms are confusing. "Have you had your autopsy yet?" is probably the wrong question. Reminds me of the old lady years back who rejoiced one Sunday that her grandchild had been born despite complications on account of the biblical cord being around the poor child's neck. The congregation also rejoiced in this victory...
Anyway once the doctor got the letter he agreed it was a BCC. No this is not an email client's secret carbon copy option, but a common form of skin cancer. Which was to be removed. Until the hospital postponed that by a week. Which is okay really when you consider the rest of the left leg. Of course I'm left wondering whether I imagined the whole thing. But I am glad the doctor believes me now.
Sorry diary. you're probably confused. Me too. Back to the ultrasound lady today. The left leg, BCC issues aside, is being investigated for DVTs. Love the code. I hasten to add none was found. The swelling of the ankle and leg remains an inconvenience and a literal pain. But that's where I started. About the technology. Come with me to Sunday morning...
This left leg has been a problem for ages. The left always is… Just have a listen to the average labour party leader… So, I decide I will do the Jesus thing. I’m going to sit and preach. Teach. Speak. Tell stories… Having explored a literal interpretation of the idea – lake, boat, speak…. Mountain, crowds, speak… I go for a stool up front with the lectern removed. Yes, that means throw away the notes. They call it “The Rev unplugged”. So, off I go.
The plan was to rest the left leg. But who, dear diary, sticks his diabolical proddy fork into the mix? The demon of technology! Again. When I sit, the radio microphone shrieks. When I stand – all is well. So that was that. No Jesus’ teaching methodology. No romantic notion of boats and mountainsides. Just me wandering around telling the story of the day. Which is about the anxieties of the age. Oh read it, do. On paper anyway. The stories I told kept us going past the hour. And that left leg just had to deal with it. Swell, the Americans might say. Swell it did.
I won’t bore you with the speaker that distorted. And how I switched it off. It’s on the left of the church too. And what is was like to play the piano with the radio mike transmitter balanced on the left – probably on three very lonely keys which I expertly avoided. Why? Because when it was in my jacket pocket it SCREAMED AT ME. Say no more...
So now the new week of new medication begins. I’m reading that peripheral edema can be caused by one of the other medications I take. Don’t go there today, I tell myself. Take the spill pill. Limit sodium intake. I will resist munching on sodium biscuits for a while then. And then we will run some more tests – in the auditorium I mean. We will sort out the shrieking microphone. On Friday. Sunday of course – anything is possible…

The gates of hell

So we go to home group. It's not complicated. It's a group that meets at a home. We go weekly. And for some time this set of gates looks at us. Don't you love the signs that shout out loud? KEEP OUT and DANGER come to mind. Boundaries are set. Spaces defined. Limitations spelt out. Building sites are dangerous ominous unpredictable inexplicable despicable places. Remember them as a child? No fences or barriers then - and the curious smell of soil unearthed and cement and stone setting, sitting in piles, and the mystery of unplastered walls and planks you could walk over leading to out-of-bounds locations.
The gates of hell will never prevail. Not this gate - on this date. With a smash and a crash the boundary-setting warning-exuding contraption leaps out and deposits itself on my 8 year old Japanese-born baby. For no rhyme or reason it remodels my innocent chariot in an act of metallic gravitational defiance by which the collection of signs keeping us out became a statement of inclusion and welcome.
Any observant person wandering down the drive could have gleefully gapped it. The gate, having relocated itself in an act of tyrannical ballistic warfare that would have caused Kim whatshisname's gleaming generals to clap and cheer in harmonious and orchestrated delight, opened doors to this terrifying place of creation and dubious design.
Go straight to State, they said. State insurance, For those new to these wobbly islands at the ends of the earth.You've seen the adverts. "Ain't nothing gonna break my stride." What they can't sort is astounding and quite remarkable by all accounts. Perhaps it was the advert that got the gate going. Every possible scenario is portrayed as they boast of the power of their corporate protection. No, as the consultant correctly points out, there were no flying gates in the advert. Most unusual, says she. Gates do not prevail. Not even from hell. I try to explain it was at home group. That doesn't work.
But the Japanese chariot can be restored to its former shape and finish at a panel-replacer of my choice from their pre-selected preferred providers. What excess? is my short question. Surely the gate is to be held responsible? No - they will attempt to retrieve my precious dollars after the fact. It's a no-blame society, is it not? People have their personal gate- attacks. Not a good idea to blame the gate. What if an earthquake quakes? Gates and fences will have their day in good time. This is an aberration. Most unusual.Reflect on that, reverend. And I do. Deeply and widely, as the old song goes.
Upon reflection then, I conclude that I am proud to be chosen to be the one who kept out of the danger zone - who obeyed the signs - who consulted the writing on the wall - who read the notice board. I knew it said danger. I should have known better.
But that gate clearly chose me to be the first. And next month when my leg is finally fixed and I can't race around in my Japanese chariot anyway - when they finally cut this crafty carcinoma from my caving calf muscle, and steal skin to seal the deal, forcing me to walk around with my leg in the air again, all evidence of that gate's grumpy jumpy autumn night in April will be expunged from the record.We'll both be in a body shop. Chop. Chop. Chop...

Titanium or Aloominim...

Should have gone to Specsavers...
That's what we say when people don't get it. Or see it. Or if they persistently mess things up through lack of vision. For the second Monday in a row I did. Go to Specsavers. It was very early and the shopping centre was barely awake. I was concerned that no one else had arrived for their appointments. Late. Cancelled. And me. One has to wonder if the optometrist would be able to see anything at that hour. I've been wondering about automatic cars, more efficient robots, and whether there would be any jobs left in the future. My fears were semi-allayed when the lady told me where to rest my chin. The rest, as they say, is history. The machine woke up and moved ominously into position, whirling and wheezing and whining as they do, until it peered into my eye with more excruciating robotic groans and after the human assistant directed me to gaze with expectation at another green light in the tunnel ahead, FLASH - it took a selfie - of my eye. And of course its sister whizzed into action with assessments, puffs, and various pants to complete the assessment that I had arrived at my appointment.
Having faced the real optometrist who seemed awfully young to operate her set of amazing robots, and who made ME decide how far I would actually hold my mobile phone, tablet, device and perhaps a real book. the spell was cast and a new prescription prescribed.
Cue Daisy. Breaking into song I began that old war time favourite- " Daisy Daisy, give me your answer do.." and in a flash another pile of frames shaped my destiny, and ultimately my chubby cheeks, Sorry folks - all those who LOVED my brightly coloured preselected plastic frames, Daisy who was a whiz at these things proceeded to introduce me to the FLEXIFRAME. Behold - bend these every which way but where they should have been, and behold - they spring back into shape.
Having been weighed and found wanting in the doctor's rooms, and knowing what a spectacle one can make of oneself when one sits on the things, the next decision was simple. Titanium or Aloominim. Bye bye plastic. At that price one goes for the light weight super flexible non-corrosive virtually unbreakable metal that feels like an extended paper clip with hinges.
So there we are. Should have gone to Specsavers went.
And that was Monday before 11.00am.
The rest of the day is far from funny, in case you were hoping for a bucket of laughs. O yes there were amazing moments. Like the re-appearance of the 2 dollar shop in new red colours, where actually, everything is actually two dollars (unless otherwise indicated). With joyful abandon I purchased three NO PARKING SIGNS which will be gleefully attached through double sided tape to specifically targeted areas where no maniac in a too long or red car would ever dare to park.
The curry lady, with a broad smile from the depths of the Indus river valley delta, again put too much curry on our plate, because we love her cooking as she feels immense and deep compassion for these untouchables who have to share a meal. The coffee we shared amazingly came with two Bavarian creme donuts. It helps to buy coffee from the Donut place. And Millers miraculously had the perfect jumper (aka jersey) for the ever-vigilant Mrs P.
My friend David from Dils spent a long time while we were having this blast of success solving the challenges of the day so that we could move forward with the double funeral on Thursday. More later about the fact that this couple who have died a few days apart lived up the road from us.
The DAILY DAIRY - out, Peace. A robot will NEVER NEVER NEVER write this blog... Yet.

A Sunday Diary Post - or reflections on the first day of the week

DAILY DIARY.
Last week being so hectic I thought I should do a daily dairy again. Okay I am one day late already. SUNDAY was a blessing. It had some interesting moments. Like only one guitarist out of three arriving. And his guitar refused to tune itself. A second did arrive, and a new person on the sound desk who actually is a sound engineer. That worked. And there were people there who didn’t run off for mothers’ day parties.
For years we have had a notice on the screen suggesting people be quiet as they prepare for worship. That didn’t work. Sunday - the new one says; “We’ve tried to get you to be quiet before church. That didn’t work. So enjoy yourself as you prepare together” – or words to that effect. There were people who found that funny. The message worked. You can read it at bbpsermons. And the song which I had not sung for more than 30 years. A wonderful morning really. Praying that there will be fruit.
At home the phone rang – Specsavers reminding me I have an appointment Monday. (Did they read about me forgetting the concert last week?). We did remember that the car was about to run out of petrol. On that trip noticed that someone had almost destroyed the neighbour’s fence at church. That’s why the signs say - “park front in only” so as not to reverse into the fence again (which has been replaced at considerable cost). So I interrupt the tea-time and ask the three people who ignored the signs to sort it out. The lady with the very long car realizes the problem. The others are indifferent. The man with the red car starts debating the sign. I explain we ask all to conform as eventually someone will forget and bash the fence. He says his car is small and has reverse lights. I ask him if he argues with the police about the rules. That didn’t work. Suggest if he doesn’t like the rules he park on the street. He does. (Prof Alfie Rooks always said people in red cars were dangerous. Until I arrived one day in my orange car. He stopped saying that.) Of course the lady with two dogs in the car parked in the “No Parking” place (blocking access for us) seemed to think that the rules don’t apply on Sundays. I got her to move into the vacated place of the previously almost-bashing-down-the-fence car. Front in first. Her dogs did not complain that the view wasn’t as nice. She did not argue. Much.
Decided I should never drive past the church on Sunday afternoons. Went back to the garage to use the almost-expired half-price car wash ticket. After seeing real soap on the car decided that the previous car wash had failed. Explained to the man that last time I had not got my money’s worth. He says I should say so on the day. I say – how do I know what is not working unless I see when it does work? Like the soap in abundance today. He gives me a free voucher – probably to get rid of me.
So mothers’ day is in the midst of all this. One son buys lunch. The other arrives for dinner and a jolly time is had by all. I am rejoicing that I have found new shoes to replace the ones my eldest “borrowed” last time for work. So he says last night: “have you got some shoes for me so I can go straight to work” etc. Much hilarity. They have no idea why I am laughing my head off at dinner. I clean the shoes and of course they fit him. Again. Mind you my new ones are a better shape – which relates to the reason why I had those aborted blood tests – my swollen foot. I will be able to see the blood test results today on the fancy portal. Before the doctor. Not that I will have a clue what they mean.
What a wonderful day. It’s Monday today. I’ve listened to dear friends and what tough weekends they have had. How easy my life is. I won’t forget the appointment. And I will update you as we go along. Did I tell you I have two funerals on Thursday? Husband and wife. Please pray for the family. More later. Here endeth the daily diary…. Not a sacred diary. Just mine… Sunday done.

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A very busy week indeed...

So what kind of week has it been... no one will read this anyway so here goes... Sunday was great. best part was the chariot the kids made so Philip could run along side it on the spot as we explored the question - how far would you go to share God's love with others.... does it include taking up athletics? Ah well the rest was more like an interactive classroom discussion on baptism. I always say that monologues are boring as sermons anyway.
Monday - we forgot to go to a concert we had tickets for. Got to look at options for new specs. Should have gone to specsavers to notice the reminder about the concert.
Tuesday is a blur. Wednesday night home group I remember clearly.
Thursday was straight to the doctor then blood tests. That did not go well. Got a rookie who did something wrong. I passed out of course. For quite a while. Been a while since that happened. Gave me a shocking headache for the afternoon. And a Session meeting in the evening. The fish and chips before was good. Did not agree with me and the night was not great... Of course you've stopped reading now anyway. Friday morning the blood people phone first thing. The blood whatyoumacalled it. Fail. Had to give more blood today. Of course the head blood person was at hand. Mainly music came first. Helped lead a large crowd of kids and mums. Great songs. Blood drawn at lunch. A funeral arranged in between for next week. Took the best wife in the world out this afternoon as she is working tomorrow. Which means Sunday's sermon will be a Saturday final production. had a major debate at the Warehouse with the boss about the fact that the yellow sticker's special price was the same as the normal one for the shoes on the shelf. Not a very special offer. Became a determined consumer wanting an answer. He blamed the national pricing people. Friday ended with fish and chips. And no one is reading this anyway. Discovered I can check my blood tests on line but half of them failed because the blood had clotted... And I didn't faint this time.
And how was your week? An awful lot happened in between all this including a great time at Interserve on Wednesday and a various other gatherings. Inspired by missionaries working in various countries ending with stan that I can't pronounce.
And of course the doctor prescribed a green script. The green people are coming to get me. Watch this space.
Now you know why I am thinking about the week that was...
Yay! I remember we had church on Tuesday, and the local pastors' association meeting at lunch time. I went to the local Christian bookshop to fetch things ordered a couple of weeks ago. Then went with a lady in church who needed someone to go along to look a replacing her car... Tuesday church was a great time.... spoke on John 10:27-30...