Most of the time, I completely sympathise with The Wombats:

 

"Let's dance to Joy Division

And celebrate the irony:

Everything is going wrong,

But we're so happy!"

 

I love things that are rubbish. I don't know why this is - I think it has to do with being too English. As Bill Bailey says, "I'm British, so I crave disappointment". I like to enjoy things ironically. Some people think I'm not enjoying a film when I'm slating it and laughing at its awfulness the whole way through - oh contraire, I am enjoying myself immensely! I love to hate cheesy/rubbish/badly-made/poorly-acted tripe. It does, however, have to reach a certain standard of awfulness to be enjoyable ironically. I find the average chick flick/teen comedy painful but not painful enough to enjoy. High School Musical, however, definitely crosses into the enjoyably awful category. And then there are the few films that carry on out the other side and are actually too bad to be any kind of good.

 

This week I saw Mama Mia! and didn't really know how to react. Some of it I enjoyed because it was rubbish. But I fear that most of it crossed the line back into just dreadful. I enjoyed myself laughing at Piers Brosnan every time he tried to break into song with that pained expression on his face. But was mainly left bemused and thinking, "why?"

 

This week I think I also crossed the road-tripping line. It has been mentioned many times that Sim and I enjoy getting lost for fun, and a "successful" road trip in our books requires a lot of failures, including getting lost, tresspassing, failing to find anything interesting in the village when we get there, inclement weather, being hungry, and general disappointment. Yes, this is fun. Honest. But trying to find a village called Marsh Gibbon on the hottest day of the year with totally inadequate footpath signs, leading to two hours hopelessly wandering fields, running out of water, clambering over fences covered in stinging nettles and having no idea how or if we would ever get home again, did actually finally cross the line from "fun" to "no, we might actually die."

 

Which just goes to show that even if you enjoy not enjoying things, there is a line somewhere.

 

Mind you, both those things are now funny again in hindsight. Which brings in a whole other category of enjoyment: "It's awful now, but it'll make a good anecdote later"...

 

I'm eating my way through a packet of "Sainburys Basics Smoked Salmon".

 

Does that seem quite funny to anyone else?

 

 

 

So the Christian message is bascially this: "While we were still sinners, Christ died for us."

 

He died for us - he came further than it is possible to imagine in order to save us, forgive us, do ALL the work it took to make us right. And he didn't wait until we were good enough, or were making a bit of an effort, or had cleaned up our act, or even had some good intentions to reform. Nope - while we were still sinners - while we were cheating on him, slandering him, totally cutting him out of our lives - it was then that he died for us.

 

It seems to me that we are quite good at accepting that fact on the surface. That Christ can love completely a complete sinner, that there's nothing we can do to save ourselves, but that he has to do it all for us. But it also seems to me that once we become Christians, we are quite good at changing the rules...

 

Christ calls us up into a new and better way of living once he has heaved us out of the mud. He changes us so that we start to want different things, to live lives centred around a different centre, to battle with our old ways of thinking and living and choose freedom. This is true. What he doesn't do is say, "I've saved you from the past but if you mess up again now, I'm not sure what I can do for you, I'm afraid." Or, "I loved you when you were a hideous sinner who didn't know any better, but now you do know better, I'm going to be terribly disappointed in you if you continue to stuff up."

 

We know this. But do we actually know it? It's quite scary to ponder whether you might actually, a lot of the time, live as if he had said either of these things...

 

While we were still sinners - you can't get any worse than that! So why should Christ's sacrifice be enough for a complete sinner, but not enough for a half-reformed Christian? So out of some kind of shame and fear that we're not a "good Christian", we try to hide stuff from him. We convince ourselves that we are better than we really are. Or that we're worse than we really are. We cover ourselves in false humility and try to dupe God in our prayers. "Oh Lord, if it is your will, please provide this promotion for me - not for my sake but for the sake of my family, so that I can provide for them better..."

 

Who is this baffling new cardboard person? Brennan Manning calls them the "false self", saying, "this is the man I want myself to be, but who cannot exist, because God does not know anything about him."

 

This cardboard "good Christian" is not the person that God carefully and purposely created, and loved with such passion that he cast aside everything to die for. Suddenly they have become some sort of stranger. This made-up person is not the one he loves and wants to speak to and change and use and love. "The false self is frustrated because he never hears God's voice. He cannot, since God sees no-one there." Mr or Mrs Pious is not a real person - they're not in God's phone book. It's like God trying to phone his own child and instead of getting them on the line, with all their tantrums and traumas and rudeness and love, he is met with a very polite, automated call centre full of well-trained strangers. They sound nice, but they are not the beloved child he aches to speak to. Who'd want that?

 

Why do we do this? Why do we keep a little bit of us, the bit we don't like, hidden behind our backs, stuffed down and never voiced? Do we think God doesn't know about that bit? Do we think God only loves the nice bits of us? Are we afraid that the real us will be a disappointment to God? To the God who died for us while we were at our very worst, in full knowldge of everything we would ever do in the future and still thought it was worth it - while we were still sinners..? Is it possible to take him by surprise? Is it possible to be too bad for his sacrifice to cover?

 

To accept that God does not just love the "who I will be one day" version of me, but also loves me every single minute and even while I am still sinning (not loving my actual sin, of course), but that he loves me while I fail, while I am angry, while I am ashamed, while I am neurotic - that he adores all of me in those moments too, that he knows it all and loves, seems too deliciously good to be true. When you find that it is true, you discover why the gospel is really good news.

 

With all this hiding and pretending and trying to be a "good Christian" and in our false humility, we are robbing the gospel of its full power. We are robbing grace of the full extent of its meaning. We are robbing Jesus of being glorified - of being what he wants to be: "a Saviour of boundless compassion, infinite patience, unbearable forgiveness, and love that keeps no score of wrongs".

 

The moment we open our hand and show him everything we've been hiding, and cry, "I cannot even begin to be a good Christian!" - that's the moment that he is glorified, that grace shines through, that we are being Christians again. That's where real humility is to be found - in the knowledge that he loves us, all the time, even now. Even like this. Even the bits we want to hide. I think a lot of Christians fear that accepting ourselves and accepting Jesus loves us is an exercise in pride. But knowing we're utterly loved when we also really know ourselves doesn't make us proud - it makes us eternally humble. And suddenly we are the sinner only saved by grace again, and we can begin to live...

but Doctor Who is still pretty good.

Oh, come on.

It is ridiculous. I can't think of any other show I would give credit to for resolving an impossible love story by creating a hybrid clone trapped inside a parallel universe. But they did it with style.

And for a largely comic show, it does the best-written and acted tragedy I've seen for ages. It can keep you awake at night. A perpetual lament to one man's loneliness.

And giant alien wasps.

 

 

ooh er.

Does the fact that I haven't written here for ages meant that:

 

a) My life has become far too exciting to leave me time for such things?

b) Nothing at all of interest has happened for me to report?

c) Nothing in the least profound or witty has crossed my mind?

d) I have just become rather disorganised and sort of forgotten to find any time to do this?

e) I have lost both my hands in a cider-press and can no longer type?

 

The answer is d), with a bit of all of the others thrown in.

 

Apart from the cider-press. Although I did get a pretty bad papercut the other week.

 

Things that have happened... let's see... I almost went punting, but it was called off due to flooding. So that was exciting. I did get to teach my work colleagues how to play croquet instead, so you know, not a totally wasted day. Discovered a really nice part of St Johns for the first time that I never knew we were allowed in when I was a student. Ho hum. The Standard Seven were all reunited for that weekend, which was lovely indeed, it was good to see Captain Clean and Fairy Boy taking their customary roles in the washing-up process.

 

Geoff loves being called Fairy Boy.

 

My young nephew Joel has been growing into a big fat pie in the meantime, and can now do a good impression of "amused/a little scared" if you pull a funny face at him.

 

A few weeks ago, Lou, B and I took a road trip to Dr Newell's new place in Kent, which is beautifully in the middle of nowhere.. we rambled in the rain to (apparently) the real site of the Hundred Acre Wood, and the others did a pretty good impression of Winnie the Pooh characters.

Guess which is which. I'd be amazed if you could. I just wanted to make them look silly, in all honesty. 

 

I've been finding out that I really quite enjoy making bling Powerpoint presentations. Oh yeah.

 

Lou has left the Bulan to become a tree-planter in the mountains near L.A. for the summer. As you do. Good to hear she's enjoying it thus far, but it's the end of the line for Bulan as we know it! About a month til I move out, and it'll be rather sad, as I do now think of this place as Home.

 

Will that do for now? More important than all these things is the pressing question of whether the Daleks have exterminated the Doctor. I might not sleep now...

 

 

Having never been to Ireland in any way, and not knowing any of my Reps there yet, I jumped at the chance to represent the office at the Latin Link Ireland conference on Saturday. And what a grand bunch they are, so they are.

 

Basically my main preconception about Northern Ireland, having met several people from there at uni, was that it had a population of about ten and they all live in the same house - they all seemed to know each other, and/or be distantly related. I thought this would probably be disproved by a trip there, but no, this notion was proven very much correct - seriously, everyone does know everyone. "Oh aye, I know his mother". "Och yes, I used to teach his brother!" and so forth. Ballymena, Ballymoney, the whole bally lot of them.

 

But what a beautiful place... a holiday there is definitely in order in the summer. It was something of a cross-cultural experience really. I've never before been to a Presbyterian church, which must have seemed very weird to them. And the hospitality culture is alive and well there and really lovely to experience. I was put up, fed and watered, and driven around by several different families and people who had only just met me. The old ladies greeted me with genuine enthusiasm and wanted to know all about my life. I guess these are things that I have almost come to take for granted when I go to visit Christians anywhere - there's always a bed, and friendly face, and more food than you can eat, wherever you are in the world.. But I don't know, people all seemed somehow more genuine and a lot less cynical over there, especially in church.

In fact, the Irish were so hospitable that I missed my flight home due to enforced apple pie.

 

My flight was booked for 3:10pm on Sunday, thinking this would give me time to visit a church and then skedaddle. First surprise was that over there, out in the sticks, services start at 12 to give the farmers time to have a lie in, milk their cows, and then walk a hundred miles to church. My Northern Irish colleague Elma said, "all right, but we'll have to go to church and then go straight to the airport while the others have lunch. That'll be all right."

 

"It won't be all right," the minister replied, "because you won't have any lunch. You won't go home without any lunch. You just won't," he declared, as if heading home slightly peckish would be a mortal sin. "We'll head back early and make you a quick bite you can eat and then run to the airport."

 

We reluctantly agreed to this. Arriving at the Manse and expecting a swift sandwich, we were both somewhat horrified to be faced with full table settings and a the unmistakable signs of a full three course dinner. Uh-oh....

 

"We've really to be going now, so we have," said Elma as we wolfed our roast dinner.

 

Then out came the apple pie.

 

As we slowly drove back to Elma's family house, having just missed my flight, she ruefully reflected, "we both knew. But we still ate the pie."

 

After the initial shock, I was mainly rather amused that my plans had been scuppered by the determined hospitality of Irish Christians. "No! You'll not go without lunch!" But I got rather less amused as, after having got on the next (much later) flight, I paced around Birmingham airport all night from 11pm til 6am, trying to pass the time with crosswords, trying to lie down comfortably on a steel bench, and counting down the hours before I could get a fried breakfast at 4am. You see, for some reason, Birmingham airport doesn't run trains to anywhere between about 10pm and 6am. Presumably if you arrive on a plane in the middle of the night you are just expected to undergo four hours pacing around its air-conditioned foyers.

 

Anyway, hopped on the first train home and got to Bulan at 8am, just as my housemates were leaving - the sheer look of confusion on their faces as I came in from somewhere was rather amusing.

 

"Don't ask. I'm going to sleep." And so I did, until 3pm. Actually, after about 14 hours sleep in 21, I felt significantly more sprightly than I normally do on a Tuesday morning.... so I did.

 

 

Before I collapse into bed (16 hours, seven trains, three cities, all day on my feet)... It is with great pleasure and thankfulness that I can say

 

 

From his coolest Auntie Mel :o)

Oh yes... my blog. Sorry, almost a month's absense, lamented by many far and wide, I'm sure.

Well, not sure what to report really - I'm still not an Auntie and if you give any more advice to my sister on how to induce labour, she will probably sumo-wrestle you to the ground. So we're in limbo about that really. In the same week I turned down a ticket to the FA cup final in order to work. That is dedication. Okay so the work is in Belfast which was the main appeal.

I spent all day in the beautifully hot and sunny parks yesterday, and found that May 10th can be my friend, or at least not my mortal enemy - good opportunity just to chill and think and pray and be in God's company properly, and allow some designated time to think about my brilliant friend for a few hours. Was good. And "Love Oxford" this morning with The Church of Oxford in the street was pretty kickass. There was something very cool which I can't put my finger on about people geting baptised in front of the whole gathered Christian community of Oxford. Felt more like one family together, perhaps.

So the next weekend should hopefully bring a new (blood) family member and my first trip to Ireland, and in the meantime I will have a counselling exam, more househunting, another Wednesday as Ollie's servant at the King's Centre, and probably some more sunburn. 

aka the "not involving any kind of predation at all" mural in my future niece/nephew "Hugo"'s nursery... Painted with the help of my "I trust you but don't touch it while I'm not here" assistant Tamsyn.

 

 

 

I didn't really have any plans for Saturday, so obviously I ended up going to the Oxford Folk Festival. This was largely (but not exclusively) crowded out by men with beards drinking cider - tons of people in the Town Hall having a whale of a time. I went to see the excellent Alice and Jamie do a proper gig.

 

I didn't think I was particularly a fan of folk music unless you class (as some do) Damien Rice, Jose Gonzales and friends. But they really were excellent, I was much impressed, the only band of the day to get an encore, plus Alice's never-before-heard singing voice wasn't half bad!

 

 

It was only on Tuesday night that I went to the pub with some friends - a pub I've never been to before - and found that one end of it was full of blokes loudly watching Liverpool v Arsenal, and the other end was full of people clutching bagpipes, violins, and, I kid you not, a hurdy gurdy. I was just thinking how crazy they looked when one turned round and cried, "Mel! Yes, wherever there is folk in this town, there is Alice Little. :o)

 

I've never seen a hurdy gurdy before. They are pretty cool. If you like that kind of thing.

 

The folk fesitval enabled a bit of laughing at morris dancers (including teenage girl morris dancers, who'd have thunk?) on Cornmarket Street in the middle of town, thus bringing all the ordinary fun of a road trip to Simon and I without having to go anywhere. Once again, thank you my dear, bizarre Oxford.

 

I have just spent a rather lovely weekend in London Town. Managed to see a lot of people whom I love and rarely see, along with two ridiculously amazing central London flats. Leggy's abode in Middle Temple with its wood-panelled study, ancient law books, frecoes, turret and view of Big Ben tops even Oxford's student accomodation. Absurd.

 

More absurd though was my Sunday activity. Ratboy Heald informed me that "the Olympic torch relay is going to pass by the end of my road - do you want to come early and watch it?" Now Ratboy is a big sports fan; I am not particularly, and assumed that we were very likely to be the only people who turned out in the snow to watch a flame carried by a psuedocelebrity pass by probably on a bus.

 

I was mistaken. Lining the street outside the British Museum were thousands of Chinese people waving flags, and a surprisingly heavy police presence. What we didn't know was that earlier in the "Journey of Harmony", some bloke "disguised as a member of the public" (our favourite quote from the news there) had tried to wrestle the torch from the hands of Konnie Huq off of Blue Peter. So we were a bit surprised when a very small group of people silently carrying a placard saying "Free Tibet" down the side of the street passed by, to be met with loud boos and then a rendition of the Chinese National Anthem from the crowd. At this stage, Calum and Fergus trotted off to go and join in the protest, while Ratboy and I stood there mildly interested by the goings-on, reflecting that we had never heard a "Don't Free Tibet" protest from a crowd before.

We didn't really see the torch go by - the thirty Chinese officials, policemen and bodyguards surrounding it in a three-person deep ring, followed by police on bikes and motorcycles rather obscured the view. As they ran past they yelled "get back!" to the highly dangerous people who had come to clap. This was when we became rather ashamed of Britain. What a farce. The Tibet supporters and the China supporters were standing right next to each other in the crowd and all they were doing was cheering or booing - there was not a hint of violence anywhere. Even a man trying to snatch the torch, a man using a fire extinguisher, or some people throwing eggs hardly constitute a major security alert or even a risk of any physical harm. You wouldn't think that by the way the police were tackling people to the ground, though. This all just seemed to be a massive overreaction. A good day for those trying to get Tibet on the agenda, because it certainly disrupted events enough for the world to take notice - well done. But the thing is that they didn't really do it - it was the reaction of the police and authorities that made the whole thing into a big deal and allowed it to cause disruption. There really was no need for the thirty policemen. So, beamed around the world will be these nice pictures of the "Journey of Harmony" - the Olympic flame representing the unity of all nations obscured by a massive bodyguard trying swat away anybody exercising their freedom of speech and right to protest in a frankly very peaceful way. Kind of ironic that those demonstrating against China should be treated that way...

 

We spent about the next three hours watching the live coverage of the relay on BBC News 24. It was strangely compelling - like watching the Marathon but with the added interest of a potential ruckus. Who'd have thought that I would spend my afternoon glued to something I had thought would be a dull ten minutes? You never do know.

 

 

What can I tell you?

Have had a week off my studies and so supposedly caught up on sleep, but this was nicely undone by celebrating the Fesitval of Lou all weekend, whereby a late night combined with losing an hour resulted in much too little shut eye last night. Was fun though :o) Especially high tea in a cafe for which we were terribly underdressed.

Not a lot of note to report right now, just in the pondering stage about whether or not to move (boo hoo) and/or get a third job. A little excited thinking about Mr Roberts' wedding in the summer. Relearning to drive is still a rather more fun experience than learning to drive ever was in the first place (Hannah Davis I am so very indebted to you) - tomorrow we might even face my fear of roundabouts. Come on! Most learner drivers are still better than me, but we're getting there.

About to judge a (rather difficult) competition I set on The Pygmy Giant.

Oxford won the boat race, which I didn't see and don't really care about but like having it there to hold over my Cambridgite sister.

It's been really encouraging talking again on msn to Henrry, mi hermano en Peru after a long while. Incredible how you can forget sometimes how well some people understand you, and chatting to them again is something like coming home. And it's a crazy miracle that God can make that happen between seemingly random people from totally different cultures, languages, backgrounds and continents! Speaking of which, this week I've found out the answers to the prayers that Juan, Hanna and I prayed for each other last time we met up in London. I got the Latin Link job. Jonny is going to train as a vicar. And Hanna is moving to New Zealand! None of us forsaw that being the upshot of all our pondering and praying, but hey it's much more exciting that way. Will miss you in this hemisphere, but go for it Hanita.. :o)

And I'm still trying to find out where old ladies buy their walking sticks.. hmm.

Arty meanwhile has been getting excited about her new scratching post. Life is simpler for the small and furry.

And, for those who are interested, the final takings from the sarcasm fine box for the 3 weeks of Lent in which I actually made an effort, totalled £4.78. Which isn't a multiple of 10p, somehow, but reflects 50 slipups in 3 weeks, which is rather poor. So I guess I owe Latin Link a fiver. Glad they benefit slightly from my failure to be nice :o)

Dread, terror, pain, loneliness, resolve, courage, love.

 

I've been trying to write something all week about that black night in Gethsemane, but can't find the words. It was here that the full force of the horror of what was to come hit him. Here that he wanted his friends, but was utterly alone. Here that, for love of us, he made up his mind to do it anyway. What can I say? Here are his words instead - just imagine, if you have the courage.

 

 

 

 

 

Oh, the depth of the riches of the wisdom and knowledge of God!
      How unsearchable his judgments,
      and his paths beyond tracing out! 
 "Who has known the mind of the Lord?
      Or who has been his counsellor?" 
 "Who has ever given to God,
      that God should repay him?"
 For from him and through him and to him are all things.
      To him be the glory forever! Amen.

 

 

When I get a little glimpse of how deep and long God's giant story is, with all its characters and grand overarching plotline, and subplots and stories and events interlinking and twists in the tale and chains of events starting and growing and dividing and multiplying, and all of us somewhere in there... I stop and agree with Paul. At moments like Na's baptism on Sunday, for instance. Flipping heck, all the neat endings I presume to think up are amateur rubbish from a channel 5 soap. I try to tell him where each chapter should end. But I'm wrong and the way he fits it all together is infinitely more artful. He planned it all out before I started reading. His ultimate epic would overflow the Bodleian.

 

As it's Sunday it'll be easier to write this. Sundays don't count in Lent, and for Lent I am still vainly trying to give up sarcasm. It is not an easy feat. If you have become accustomed to conversing in the lowest form of wit, you don't even notice you are doing it most of the time.

 

It's interesting - not being sarcastic leaves you with basically three options - be honest and therefore really nice, be honest and therefore really horrible, or just shut up entirely.

 

Let's just say there are some people I am having to avoid talking to on my own. Heaven forfend we should be nice to one another, or find that our friendship has only survived the years because sarcasm has prevented us from being bluntly horrible to each other.... Ahh, just kidding ;o) But it is rather humbling to have to painfully bite back a witty retort and actually become just a pleasant listener.

 

So yes, partly it was supposed to be a humbling thing, and partly it was to raise some money for Latin Link. My "sarcasm box", at 10p a time, has so far collected £3.50 for Arco Iris, the children's home in Huaraz. It's not a lot, but oooohhh Lent is young. Too young.

 

I've been feeling a little bereft of road trips, but made up for this today by Sim, Hannah and I getting in her car and deciding to find a lunch venue by tossing the "mystic coin" to decide whether to turn left or right at every junction. Simran told us this was always a great way to navigate yourself around the countryside to a nice pub on a pleasant Sunday afternoon. The coin took us to two pubs that had stopped serving, one that was far too expensive, one we had almost within our hungry grasp but which the coin forced us to turn left just before reaching, through Garsington twice, through another three villages even I had never heard of, and eventually to a completely empty Indian restaurant in Wheatley that was doing a Sunday buffet, where we sat down to onion bhajis at 3:15pm.

 

Actually, it was quite nice. 

 

I was left to reflect that if either Sim or myself had ever had a car during uni, we would have got into a lot of trouble.

Living concurrently in three cities with, to all intents and purposes, three jobs, has made me rather neglect this little haven. But I'm here tonight.

 

A number of strange things have happened to me in the last few days, which is always somehow comforting. Taking my place amongst the commuters on the morning train to Reading is fairly strange in its own right... They type away on their laptops, or talk on their phones, or pour over their files, whilst I am either reading the Bible or trying to recapture the slumber from which I was so unwillingly torn at about 6:45 that morning; my head drumming against the train window or veering dangerously towards the shoulder of the sharp-suited commuter next to me.

 

Stranger things have happened, though. On Friday, I was sitting on the slower-than-walking-pace bus through Reading after work, heading for my sister's place, when suddenly, out of nowhere, I thought to myself with absolute conviction: "I really fancy some boeuf bourguignon."

 

Now, maybe this has happened to you in the past, but personally, I can't remember a single instance in my twenty-four years on this planet in which I have really, really fancied some boeuf bourguignon. Neither could I remember the last time I had had that particular dish. It was never a family favourite. But I was quite certain that that was what I really felt like. When I got to Tamsyn's, she told me what we were going to cook for dinner, and I jokingly mentioned that for some reason I had a sudden craving for boeuf bourguignon. What was her reply?

 

"Well that's just as well, because Mum and Dad are bringing that up tomorrow night."

 

No. Way. What are the chances?

 

Which just goes to show our family motto is quite correct - Mummy Knows.

 

The other weird thing happened today, where I spent part of my working morning dressed as an Andean lady in the company of three of my colleagues, as a ridiculously-dressed pancake-race relay team. We had to process through Reading behind the mayor, and then compete against teams dressed as giant dogs or in hospital scrubs for the coveted (apparently) Oracle trophie. We were slightly stunned to get through the first heat, not least because one of our team had a doll wrapped in a blanket slung over her back, which was arguably a slight handicap. We were then knocked out by the reigning champions though (I have to admit, my tossing the pancake onto the floor may have cost us the race), and were also disappointingly robbed of the fancy dress prize by a bunch of pirates. Appropriate, in some ways.

 

So that was a normal day at the office. I have long suspected that that is basically what goes on all the time at Latin Link. I mean, they have a dressing-up box, and until today I didn't even know there was going to be a fancy dress prize and just assumed we were going to dress up for the comedy factor - which honestly would not have been at all out of character. They tell me that they do honestly spend most of their working hours dressed normally and sitting at desks, but I'll believe that when I've gone another six months without running around the streets dressed in a poncho.

 

 

There comes a season in which every office worker must spread her wings like a lever arch file, take to the air like so many photocopies left next to a window in a gust of wind, and fly south in search of new territories.

 

For Dangermel, that time is now. I had not mentioned it before, but at long last I have been actually employed for money by Latin Link in tropical Reading, which is one step cooler than dressing up as a Peruvian and harassing people to go to South America just for fun and discounts. So, yesterday I said a rather fond farewell to Primary Health Care - to my nice colleagues, my lovely bosses who visited me in hospital and let me have months off sick, the plants I've tended and watered, the amazing printer, and Tim the Skeleton. Gonna miss that guy.

 

It's been a great bit of office experience in a cheerfully laid-back atmosphere, and here are some of the things that I will now have to do without:

 

- no more making coffee for the whole department

- no more 36 days' annual leave

- no more afternoons of data entry

- no more Oxford bodcard holders' priviledges

- no more emptying, reorganising or recycling of the contents of whole filing cabinets

- no more taking a day off with 24 hours' notice (I presume..)

- no more being the very underqualified technical support guy

- no more uber-civilized Christmas parties that last an hour before everyone leaves to pick up their kiddies

- no more making unnecessary trips up and down stairs to the photocopier because I have run out of things to do

- no more grinning at Anthea and Jason's deeply melancholic humour

- no more sly trips to the biscuit tin

- no more cycling to Headington in the rain to buy more biscuits for the biscuit tin

 

The saddest thing (apart from the goodbyes, obviously) was Ryan making me hand over my Bodcard and destroying it. Rubbish! I must get me a readers' card as soon as possible - it's like the magical key to the city in these parts. Actually, the good thing is that now I have started my course in Christian Counselling, I am eligable to get an NUS card. Wonderful - it's worth it just to get back my dear departed student discount ;o)

 

Will miss the old place, I reckon.

 

Hope they can work out how to make their own coffee and stack the dishwasher. I shall lie awake at night worrying about who is going to take the minutes. Maybe.

 

So yes, this year I did go to Hazelbury Plucknett especially for the wassailing.

 

This year there was a valiant attempt to play down some of the more pagan elements of the ceremony (such as the libation of cider and the gun, for instance), but we still stood around a bonfire with a man, his accordian and his beard, and sang incomprehensible songs loudly and confidently to a tune we were making up as we went along. In the rain.

 

It's getting ever more awkward trying to explain what I am doing in Chiselborough to a populace that doesn't see the ironic charm of their village events. Last year, a lady there recognised me and said, "weren't you down here for Tower Day?", to which I very hastily, and with a little too much vigour replied, "look, I didn't know there was going to be any wassailing." I was quite relieved that she wasn't there this time around or I would have found myself sheepishly explaining that on this occasion yes, I was fully aware of the singing to the trees and the celebrating of Epiphany, and had indeed travelled down especially. Now I'm wondering whether I can pull off going to another Tower Day without it seeming like I am mocking their way of life, or like I am some complete loon of a tourist.

 

We also acquired a bottle of the cider that our previous year's capable wassailing produced, how about that?

 

So I just thought I would share with you some of the verses of the "Gloucester Wassail (amended)". I don't know how it has been amended or why, and as I said, heaven only knows the correct tune. I see that it includes references to important wassail elements like the piece of toast, but quite what a wassailiing bowl and a dabbinett are, I know not. Answers on a postcard.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Errr yeah and then we wassailed Bulan with toast, the Haselbury Plucknett cider and a water pistol...