As I didn’t sleep *AT ALL last night I decided to check out the 8.30am Mass.
I was hoping there‘d be no kids.
I was right.
In fact, I was probably the youngest one there by half a century and several Popes.
Much like Waitrose on pension day.
The speediness of the responses was not a problem this week.
The total opposite.
It was like waiting to hear from the BBC correspondent in Moscow.
A couple of seconds time lag, a finger in the ear and a bit of shouting.
I don’t think everyone had switched to the “T” position because there were enough whistles and clicks going on to call Whales ashore.
None of this helped with the feedback on the priest’s radio mic thing, which only worked when he faced left.
Every time he did I heard, “Walk like an Eeeegyptian”, in my head.
Thankfully, they dispensed with the singing.
Can you imagine that?
The only one worth singing with this lot would be, ‘Nearer My G-d To Thee’.
Except when you are going up for communion and then they move so slowly time actually stops.
The sedate pace gave me time to contemplate why they let people who can’t read, or those who have ill fitting dentures near any of the books at the front.
One of the Intercession readers had us praying for ‘Paris’ instead of ‘The Parish’.
That could be dentistry or dyslexia.
I don’t mind the Advent stuff too much.
I’m partial to a bit of Isaiah, especially after Handl has had a fiddle with it.
As it were.
Weirdly, I’m not sure how I feel about this.
It confuses me.
I would love to see some changes going on in the Church, huge changes.
But they aren’t likely to happen any time soon.
Conditioning I suppose.
I don’t like watching Women’s football either, it’s just NOT the same.
Yet again, the defence at my Beloved Spurs are conspiring to make me destroy my TV and the rest of my front room furniture.
Talk about a team who can snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.
They are really beginning to try my patience now.
Lost 3-2 after being 2-1 up.
I always used to tell the kids at school, ‘Ask the question, no matter how stupid you think it is. I guarantee someone else will be thinking the same’.
So I am going to follow my own advice.
Can someone, for the love of Christ, tell me what the fuck ‘Cranford’ is all about?
Is it about hats?
Am I missing something or am I supposed to want to slip into a coma?
*That’s nearly 48 hours straight with no sleep.
11 comments:
I think that Spurs, like Newcaste, need a master class in defending. What can I say. It made me burn my curry.
If you are interested, I have copy of Cranford and other Elizabeth Gaskell if you fancy the unenviable task of ploughing through the boxes of books in the spare room.
Alternatively, look it up on Wikipedia!
BTW, probably best we don't watch MOTD 2 tonight, eh?
BTW 2, Jackie over the road has put up her xmas tree with full decs. I am of a mind to kill.
Do you and any housemates fancy gathering waifs and strays of friends to share Xmas dinner? Its either that or DIY
Yep, Waifs and Strays Christmas.
Can't even bring myself to mention football!
Gaskell has books? The plural?
Was there nobody around to tell her to stop it?
What's football? The word is now banned. Enuf of the insanity it leads to. It is like absinthe and rots your brain, kills your sociability and leads to venomous thoughts.
And Mrs Gaskell wrote several books. Sorry.
I'd rather watch Last Of The Summer Wine, and I loathe that shite with a passion.
Philistine! It's charming.
Another 'Boobs and Bonnets' bunch of bollocks!
See this Philistine alliterate!
Cranford is like a 19th century blog really. We had to read it in the first form at school.
Thank G-d we had to read 'Kes' and 'Of Mice and Men', Cranford would have put me off reading for life.
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