The Eleventh Sunday after Trinity
Should I go to the pulpit side of the sanctuary for a gluten-free communion wafer, or should I just risk it?
It was so hot last evening that the husband and I collapsed on our sofas and watched The Best of Men on I-player. It was about the genesis of the Paralympics and the spinal unit at Stoke Mandeville. Attitudes have changed since 1943 and now headlines are screaming: Thanks for the Warm-Up as there are ten days to go till the events begin. Boris joined in with a declaration that the Olympics had just been the antipasto.
There was a warm-up today as it was hot in the cathedral and even hotter under the clerical collar for the Praecentor, who had to announce that the Close Vicar had not turned up for Mattins nor Eucharist and so he had been dropped in the proverbial at the last moment re/ the sermon. I thought that I might have been able to step up and entertain the congregation with some of my diary entries, but clergy professionalism kicked in and the gap was covered.
Imagine if Sebastian Coe had not shown up to give his closing speech, or The Queen had refused to jump out of the helicopter on cue. Mind you, it might have been preferable if one or two pop has-beens had slept in.
Timing and punctuality are the something beginning with p of princes. Is it politesse? Anyway, once at Midnight Mass in the cathedral a St John’s Ambulance team discreetly slipped a stretcher between the rows and extracted a dead body. Being in the sanctuary, singing in the choir, I observed this although most of the congregation did not. Later choristers were asking what had happened and the explanation went along the lines of: Oh, some old biddy popped her clogs just before the sermon. Nice timing.
I remember being slightly shocked at such an attitude, but you can sympathise, especially when things go on too long, as in opening and closing ceremonies. Just as well Philip took the night off.
Assange came out with perfect timing to give his balcony speech, a kind of drag queen Evita, as a journalist pointed out. I half-expected him to launch into Don’t Cry for Me, Helpful Quito. Andrew Lloyd Webber might have given him a lead role or an understudy part for an ageing Elaine Paige. He thanked the Ecuadorians- did anyone know the collective term before? – for offering him asylum. However, it is an offer he can neither take up nor refuse. There is no such thing as a free lunch, not even at an embassy. Perhaps he had been mistakenly advised that it was part of The Sanctuary Hotel which has a spa and all those little bottles of goo and towelling robes and mules. I do not think sleeping on the floor of a small office is what he might have expected. The mini bar is probably empty and freebie hair conditioners might not be forthcoming. As far as we know, no one is offering him a Swedish massage.
Scott MacKenzie who wrote If You’re Going to San Francisco has died. Well, Julian, if you’re ultimately going to Guantanemo, be sure to wear some flowers in your hair.
© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012
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At this point I switched over to Who Do You Think You Are? Disability, in the form of shell-shock, was explored with a highly intelligent, in terms of EQ at least, Patrick Stewart. I will catch up on the medals later.
Candia Comes Clean 