In the words of the poem which many of us read whilst still at school, I arose this morning and on drawing back the curtains saw that it was indeed the ‘season of mists and mellow fruitfulness’ which is the opening line of ‘To Autumn’ by John Keats. It was the first real morning mist of the autumn and it was hard not be reminded of the poem – do they still teach poetry in school, I ask myself? The evening before last, I attended church as I always do each Saturday evening. I always get there 20 minutes before the service starts, not least to secure an unproblematic parking space and this affords the possibility of one or little chats. I was approached by one of the regular parishioners (who I know quite well as we probably served together on the Parish parochial council) and she mentioned how beautifully I had read the lessons the preceding Thursday when I was called upon to do these on the occasion of the celebratory Mass for Cardinal John Henry Newman, whose feast day it was. I am sure a little flattery was in place here because I believe that my rendition was nothing out of the ordinary. But the really interesting thing is that I was approached by at least three parishioners, if not more, who enquired how I was coping after the death of Meg which was exactly five months ago now. I must say it is quite heart-warming to receive these solicitations of concern and more may follow next Thursday. There is going to be a huge funeral when one of the stalwarts of the church who often read the lessons in a delightful Irish brogue is to have his funeral and I expect the church will be packed to the rafters. As a parishioner, he was one of the mainstays of the church and keep himself going for months long after the predictions of his doctors who gave him about three months to live some fifteen months ago. Afterwards we are all invited to a funeral afternoon tea in a nearby very classy hotel so I am actually quite looking forward to having some more extended conversations with some of my fellow parishioners on that occasion. The evening before last was devoted to the work of Luciano Pavarotti on what would have been his 90th birthday. I lay on the bed from just after 9.00pm until practically midnight both dozing and letting the incredible renditions of Pavarotti just wash over me and was actually quite an enjoyable way to spend the evening. In the earlier part of the evening, though, I did spend some time transmitting a few texts including one to one of my former Pilates class mates with whom I would like to catch up and have a coffee. But I am finding that most of the people with whom I am in contact are leading quite full and busy lives so things have to be arranged perhaps a week or so in advance. Sundays can be quite ‘dead’ days as people are evidently seeing their own families at the weekends but my son said he would pop round which is always welcome.
As I was finishing my breakfast, my University of Birmingham friend replied to a text message and we decided to have coffee together in our usual haunt. The number pf places which is open on a Sunday to have a coffee are quite limited but we visit a sort of water sports centre not too far distant constructed out of grave and salt pits worked out in the 1050’s. Here there is a simple cafe where, when the weather is better, we can look out over the expanses of water. Here we had a really good chat about things social, occupational, political and intellectual before my friend dropped me back at home. It was then I realised that I had lost my trusty black leather bush hat which is my trusty companion so I raced back in order to see if I had left it behind. Fortunately, this had proved to be the case and so I managed to retrieve it, vowing to myself to be more careful in the future. When I arrived back at the cafe, I engaged in a conversation with a lady who had noticed that I had forgotten my hat so she and her son had an interesting chat about holidays, particularly as the son was about to visit Thailand for the nth time. I was urged to go and was supplied with lurid details of the services offered by Thai girls to foreign visitors to which I replied that my only travel ambitions were to visit Spain in the few months ahead. After I returned home, I was not very hungry so made myself a quick ‘fish on bread’ type meal which I do if I requite a quick repast rather than a full-scale meal. Then my son and daughter-in-law called round and we had an afternoon filled with interesting conversations about the social events that we had both experienced in the last week. We also had quite a deep conversation about the ways in which an aged widower such as myself could engage in engage in meaningful social activities which sounds deceptively easy in theory but which is actually more difficult to achieve in practice.
Drones have been a common sight in Gaza for a long time, but they have always been military. The whine of a drone is enough to trigger fear in many within the enclave. But now, drones are delivering something different – long, lingering footage of the devastation that has been wreaked on Gaza. And the images are quite staggering, as whole city blocks have been reduced to rubble, streets are destroyed and towns where the landscape has been wholly redesigned. The footage is of decapitated tower blocks and whole areas turned into black and white photographs, where there is no colour but only a palette of greys – from the dark hues of scorched walls to the lightest grey of the dust that floats through the air. And everywhere, the indistinct dull grey of rubble – the debris of things that are no longer there. Meanwhile, there is a terrible waiting game to be played out as the Israelis await the return of the hostages and the Palestinians are preparing to welcome those by those held in Israeli gaols as well as many other detainees.