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Cars & Dogs & Cats

Wednesday 16 January in the year of grace 2019

    I am enjoying getting back to my blog again. I still need Heather to show me how to go about putting up the blog, and how to enter pics again, for my techno- knowledge is short-lived indeed. 

    On Tuesday I drove to Belmont Smash Repairs to get my damaged car assessed, result of hitting that large boulder. Really nice folk there, and a very professional set-up. It will take ten days in hospital to fix my poor little i30. Fortunately I will have to pay only the excess. Anyway, they can’t start the job until March 4. The car’s drivable. 

    While I was there I put on my police chaplain’s cap (figuratively) and called in on my good friends at Belmont Police Station for a pastoral visit. All well there.

    I took Jock and Bo (granddaughter Laura’s Shiatzu)  for their usual walk by the lake later that day. The day had been hot, but we are so blessed here, for as the afternoon progressed a lovely strong nor’easter blew in from the lake. It was a special walk, in that the wind by the water blew strong and free, and the tide was on the ebb, leaving little rock pools which Bo enjoyed wading through. Of course he is so low to the ground that everything, including floppy ears, dragged in the dirt as we walked along that path through the bush above the lake, so he had to have a bit of a tub before Janet would allow him back inside.

Jock keeps an eye on little Bo

    I am now typing around Tonkie, who is standing right in front of the keyboard, in the mannerof cats – OOPS. He just jumped up on my shoulder – all seven kilos of solid cat … He’s settling himself comfortably there. I’m glad he’s comfy! I can hear his purring … 

 He is so gorgeous. A real one-person cat…

Now he’s behind me on the chair … Now his feet are edging me forward as he makes himself comfortable there … Now I am now on the very edge of the seat … Now I am off it. Now Tonkie has the chair all to himself .. Now I have the other chair in the study that I use at the writing desk. Now Tonkie is happy. He is sitting beside me on one chair and I am on the other as I type. He is looking at me with those lovely serene eyes of his… He has just thrown me a cat-kiss. Soon he will be asleep.

Tonkie at the computer – on MY chair



It’s true – I can’t help it! But I love dogs too
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A Sad Day

Sunday 13 January 2019 – the second Sunday in Epiphany

There was a phone call on Friday from two daughters whose mother we will call Rene. She and her husband were wonderful, faithful members of St Andrew’s Newcastle whom we came to know very well. Rene’s husband (we’ll call him Mal) ended up dying a few years ago from a brain tumour. A year ago Rene went to an aged care facility – a really good one. The phone call was to tell me that she was now very low. Would I mind going to see her? The St Andrew’s minister was away at the time.

    Janet and I went at once. Rene has always been such a delightful person and worked so hard for her church. She was one of the “lunch bunch” folk who used to go to lunch after the morning service at St Andrew’s…. she was one of those very sweet, gentle people who are a pleasure to know, with a great faith.    

    We were a little shocked when we walked in. Rene was obviously dying. The girls wanted me to have a prayer-time with their mother. I took her hand and had the prayer. “Look at that!” one said. “Mum hasn’t been responding to anything. Now she’s holding Tony’s hand very tightly!” She was too. That told me Rene wanted the assurance of prayer and the reassurance of her heavenly Father’s Presence. We stayed for as long as we could but I was keen to get back to her.

    I was back at the facility on Sunday about 11.45. When I walked in I feared I was too late. The two daughters were there with their husbands and Rene was there on the bed.  

I had another prayer with her and again there was evidence she could hear, for her hand held mine. I knew she needed to be aware of the eternal Presence of Jesus with her. I know He was. The breathing stopped – and just before we expected it never to start again, it did. Cheyne-Stoke breathing it’s called. Signs of the end.

    The palliative care sister came in. She felt for a pulse, then listened with a stethoscope. “I think she’s really gone,” she said. “I can’t hear or feel a pulse.” And yet she continued to breathe and she didn’t go cold as one who had died.

    “I can’t understand it,” the sister said..

    Rene continued to breathe through the hours. The girls had been there ever since 0900 the previous day and were exhausted. By then I’d been there over three hours myself.   

    Finally it was decided that as it appeared Rene could survive yet another night, each daughter should go home, have a shower and a change of clothes and have something to eat before returning. One did just that and came back in time, looking much refreshed.    

    The other daughter decided also to do as her sister had done – shower, change of clothes etc. I’d been there just over four hours. I decided I would have to go too, for Janet’s sake who had no idea what had happened to me. I said that if Rene didn’t die I’d be back in the morning – but first I went to Rene:

    “Rene, I am going home now and I think it’s time for you to go home – to heaven.”  I turned to leave and as I did so one of the daughters gave a cry: “Look!”

I turned. Rene’s eyes were on me, staring at me, full of life, bright blue. I stared back, completely astonished.

    “She can’t take her eyes off Tony!” said one of the girls. Then Rene’s eyes shifted to the girls and their husbands at the end of the bed. Then she closed her eyes and died.

    I came home exhausted spiritually and emotionally  but aware that I’d been in the presence of some strange miracle that had occurred during those few moments.

    For dying people suddenly to have a little spurt of life at the end is not uncommon. I’ve seen it a number of times. There is a sudden rally. They may look about or even speak. I’ve often equated it to the way flowers in a vase, shortly before they die, suddenly, briefly brighten. What made this miraculous was the immediate response to those words I spoke, and the way she looked directly at me. I will never get over those bright blue eyes, staring at me like that, full of life – and significantly, understanding.

    If ever there was a good reason to die in the faith, as Rene did, thoroughly prepared for the life to come, it was Sunday. None of us knows the day or the hour. I just hope and pray that our ends will not be so traumatic and hard as Rene’s but I know she was unaware really of all that was happening about her, and her loving family’s hovering, and their tears.     

Enough of all this. Days like that have an effect.

Keep well and God bless you all this day and always.

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Home again

Sunday 6 January 2019 First Sunday in Epiphany

Not a great deal has happened since the start of this new year, but I thought it best to acquaint you with what has happened anyway.

    We disembarked from Pacific Jewelon  29 December 2018 and made our way back to Newcastle Airport aboard a JetStar A320 airliner.                                         

Jock went wild with delight to see us. Tonkie, in the manner of cats, was subdued, but gave a startled miaow when I called him. He spent most of the rest of the evening riding about on my shoulder. He was much pleased to have his old servant back again, although sadly it was not for long.

    Our Tasmanian adventure on Pacific Jewelhad been saddened by the sudden death of Janet’s sister’s husband Laurence Aassef in Tamworth, the day before we left. Janet debated long whether she should go with me on the ship, or go to her sister, to whom she is quite close. Finally she decided she should go with me, aware that Linda was in the caring hands of many loving family members and friends, including her Church friends, for she and Laurence have attended Tamworth Presbyterian Church these many years. Janet’s decision was motivated by the knowledge that her husband has a propensity to vagueness. Fearing that I may well trip on the anchor and fall overboard, or be stranded on Kangaroo Island or somewhere equally remote, she came with me. Much as I wanted her to be with her sister, I was pleased, for she is an excellent organiser.

    We spent the following day resting after our eight days at sea and wanderings around the wilds of Tasmania’s shopping malls in Hobart and other places. We also caught up with the numerous calls that had come during our brief absence and wrote letters various and paid bills numerous. I was delighted to receive a note to say that one of my short stories, called “Time Flies” had received a commendation in a short story competition.

    The following morning, December 29, we were on our way to Tamworth, to Linda’s home in the new retirement village called ‘Broadlands.’ We had an uneventful trip. When the two sisters saw each other, sad memories were revived and sympathetic tears were shed. Linda is handling her grief well – most of the time. Her new home in the complex is really lovely: spacious and gracious. We were very impressed with the quality and the style. Linda and Laurence had rid themselves of most of. their own furniture and purchased new, to suit the new home, and it’s lovely. Thank heavens they’d managed to do all those sorts of things before Laurence died, so now Linda is free of the worry of it all.

    We stayed with Linda until Wednesday 02 January.  Each day we were there, 

Grief, however is a companion not willing to leave too readily.

    On Monday (New Year’s Eve) I drove your mother and Linda to a shopping centre. On the way out of the village I managed to hit a large boulder and did significant damage to the car. Linda’s neighbours were just behind us when I did it. They said at least a dozen cars have hit the same boulder which is right on a sharp left-hand bend, not far from the exit gates. Drivers are inclined to concentrate on the gates. I didn’t even notice the boulder. Anyway, the car is driveable so there is no structural damage. On the instructions of the insurance company I took it to Belmont to be assessed.  

SONY DSC

    My brother Bill and wife Jenny were  here on New Year’s Eve, heading south after being on holidays up north. They arrived at Puddlebyshortly after we did on Wednesday. They were in their big motor-home, towing a Suzuki 4-wheel drive so that they can explore when they pull up at a caravan park without having to move the motorhome. Bill was in terrible pain from a knee injury. They were going to stay a few days but left for Canberra after two or three days after Bill made an appointment with his Canberra doctor.  Jenny and Janet of course got to the shops on at least one occasion, hurrying off eagerly, clutching their purses.

    I spent some of yesterday doing final preparations for the Service at Wangi Uniting Church on 6 January – Epiphany Sunday. They call me in occasionally when they are desperate. That Church has a small band and singing group and sing mainly choruses, but we had a couple of Epiphany-flavoured hymns – or carols, including “We Three Kings.”

Janet Heather, Alison and friend Ken were at the Service too, and in fact Heather read one of the lessons. It all went quite nicely and afterwards we went off to “Vita” café here at Wangi Wangi for a coffee.

    Also as I write, Tonkie is on my desk, within a few inches of the keyboard, reminding me that the time has come for me to feed Jock. In this house, Tonkie is a major player and always insists on getting a taste of Jock the border collie’s dinner. In the manner of cats, he likes to sit on anything I happen to be doing on the desk and also likes to type byy walking over the keyboard. It’s amazing, what he can type sometimes. As with all cats, he is very clever. I once read that the composer Schubert’s “Unfinished Symphony” remained unfinished at his death because cat always insisted on sitting on the manuscript… I wonder if that is true, or not?

    In the meantime, keep well and God rest ye all safe and well all the days of this bright New Year.

    PS: Ref that fearsome photo, taken in Orkney a few years ago: That is mad Tony Bloodaxe, yelling victoriously, after a short but fierce battle with the Orkney warriors. They made a frontal attack as we landed, waving the dreaded Orkney cones, with buckets and buckets of Orkney ice cream to back them up. Finally, with my trusted 2IC, Nils Thorfinn (which means “skull splitter”) we prevailed and managed to give our foes a good licking … (burp).

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A Message from the Sea

Ship Pacific Jewel

Sunday 23 December in this year of the Lord’s favour, 2018

I am sitting with Janet at a table in “the Pantry” which is a public dining area on the ship. We have just finished lunch and we are on a southward course, bound for  the port of Hobart, in Van Diemen’s Land. So far it is a little overcast, with a swell running, which is making us reel around the decks like drunken sailors as we walk, but it’s not too bad. We left Kangaroo Island yesterday evening, delayed an hour because of some emergency. We had actually left the island and had been sailing an hour when someone on board became gravely ill. The ship returned, the passenger was disembarked on a tender and as the tender returned alone, I imagine the patient was probably taken to the small hospital on Kangaroo Island, or transferred to Adelaide, or dumped overboard. Thankfully there was no work for the likes of myself or Fr Thomas Peacock, the Roman Catholic chaplain on board.

We found the city of Adelaide to be your usual big city; full of shops and eleventy million people, all crowded into the exact space that I wished to occupy. We didn’t stay very long, but on  the way back, stopped at the harbour where our ship was berthed (Outer Harbor) and went on a “Hop On-Hop Off” bus – and wished we’d done that, rather than go into the city. It  took us to a fascinating beachside suburb called Semapahore with a very old history dating back to the days of sail,  then on to Port Adelaide, which is even better. There are two square riggers berthed there – and even more amazing the great clipper ship, City of Adelaide,dating from the first half of  the 19thcentury, used to transport immigrants to Australia. She transported thousands during her time as an immigrant  ship and it is amazing to think she is being restored. She was returned from Britain in a very bad state, but in time she will be like Cutty Sark, (London) James McLeod(Sydney) and Polly Woodside (Melbourne); living remnants of the great age of sail.

Finally we returned to our ship, Pacific Jewel

    We were fascinated with Kangaroo Island. It’s like going back 150 years to early Australian settlement. We anchored off the tiny village of Penneshaw which sounds either Welsh or Cornish to me. We didn’t do any tours but wandered about the town area and found the fascinating if tiny museum, which is all about ships and the sea and Kangaroo Island’s discovery by Matthew Flinders. Dozens of ships have been wrecked around KI as they call it and there is a powerful link between KI and England which one can sense. There are some beautifully built models of ships in the museum, such as Matthew Flinders’ ship Discovery.

    We’ve been on these cruise liners when it was common to have quite a few things that were part of the price of the cruise, but no more. This ship is one designed for those who want FUN FUN FUN AND NOISE NOISE NOISE in endless quantities. I can’t be in the areas where the shows are held because of the noise. The other day Janet and I were in the big area called the Atrium, having a coffee when one of those bands started up. The base was put at full pitch and I can tell you I could feel waves of sound hitting my chest and for a while thought I was going to have a heart attack… they were like physical blows. We had to leave hurriedly. There are numerous shops selling everything. 

I must say that the cruise director Pablo and his assistant, Matthew, have been very cooperative in advertising the church services. There was a notice in the ship’s paper last night about today’s two services and I heard them give them a plug on the morning TV show today. 

Unfortunately, there was a time-confusion that had an effect on the attendance at my church service of “Nine Lessons & Carols” today.

This morning everyone was supposed to turn their clocks back from SA time to Eastern Standard (daylight saving time), at 2.00am. We changed our watches back, others didn’t, but what made it confusing was the fact that people were depending on their mobile phones to change back automatically. Ours didn’t. They were still on Adelaide time and perhaps still are. That’s how dependent people are on their phones.

The result was, we may have had quite a few more in the congregation than we would have had if everyone had relied on their watches. Some arrived on time but about a quarter who were there arrived late. When our service was due to start, I was so worried. Only four were there. I knew there would not be a great crowd. When I awoke this morning I had a thought in my head: “God is lonely, on this ship.” In fact I still have the feeling, by and large, that the vast majority of these people have no knowledge of God, or faith, or even anything even vaguely spiritual in their lives. With lots of noise noise noise and/or fun fun fun and all sorts of distractions, people don’t have to think about God. Be still, and know that I am Godis utterly foreign to them.. no rest for their souls in the quietness. Those were my thoughts in my depressed state this morning at 0600, with the service looming at 0800.

I must say the printed Order of Service of Nine Lessons and Carols that arrived was really good… no errors. It has a gold border with a gold P&O logo in the corner. In the end, we had around 30 or 40, but from what I can gather, we could have had about another 15 or so, had there not been the confusion with the time. Everyone sang the carols lustily and with good heart. We had folk from several denominations attending, including Lutherans from South Australia, a state that was largely settled originally by Germans immigrants. I had four folk read eight of the lessons, including Janet. One was a Lutheran lay preacher, another an Anglican lady from NZ. I read the last: John 1:1-4, known as The Prelude, but the others were longer. There in the community of faith again, with believing Christians, my spirits were buoyed and uplifted. Regardless of denomination, we all belong to the family and household of faith. One thing I did notice: of those present at the Service, there was not one child, or even young person. The youngest would be about 35. So once when young children knew all the Bible stories of Noah and the Ark, Daniel in the Lion’s Den etc and were taught  the Lord’s Prayer, they now live in ignorance. In most little lives, there is nothing to replace that faith. When we went off on our first chaplaincy cruise on the old Fairstarback in ’81, we had over 300 at the Easter Service… unheard of today.

We have our next service tomorrow on the ship in the port of Hobart at 0800 and the final one on Christmas Day, in Port Arthur.

Apart from the gloom, which so wracked me today, we’ve met some interesting and nice people, who greet us when we see them around the ship. We get on well with all the staff;  the  wait people and so on, most of whom are Filipinos. Despite their hard, tiring work, they are always smiling. Today we were chatting to a young Filipino lass who was waiting at the table, who had an accent exactly like Marilene’s – and she also had that pretty little trill of a laugh, like hers. She laughed when we told her about our Marilene and I added – “and she is very pretty, just like you.” She laughed. I told her that I had run out of sons, but if I had one more, I would introduce him to her (Ria). She thought that would be wonderful. So did we. I don’t know if she was a Protestant, like Marilene, or a Catholic.

We are not going to have dinner in the dining room at night any more. The choice of food for vegetarians is shocking. I had pasta twice and would have had to have it again, but tried something else, which was thick and gluggy rice. We chat away to the folk seated beside us, but you wouldn’t believe it – what I am about to relate has now happened twice: The first time there were six of us at the dining room table. Opposite me was an elderly gent and his wife. The wife was as bright as a button, chatting away happily; a real life of the party type. Her hubby said nothing, so I thought I’d better engage him in conversation. I shouldn’t have. I think his wife usually did the talking, so he started talking directly to me, and didn’t stop. As well, he had a  very soft voice – softer than mine. With all the other noise going on, I spent the meal leaning across  the table, asking “What was that?” … “I beg your pardon?”… etc. 

I got him the following night too. The next night we had a change. Opposite me was a lady, Pat, whose hubby was next to me. Further up the table was a very talkative lady with a loud voice. Pat caught my eye and started to talk… even more softy than the one the previous night, and her words ran into each other … I had no idea at all what she was saying and spent the meal repeating my experience with the gent of the previous two nights. In the end I nodded, said “Really?” smiled when she smiled, looked sad when she looked sad, laughed when she did. Beside me, her husband said almost nothing.

Janet is having a relaxing time. She’s knocked over a book or two, leads me about when she can see I’m lost, and generally organized me as usual, went to a talk or two etc. She doesn’t like our cabin at all. I don’t mind… a room is a room is a room and a bed a bed to lie on when one gets tired.. . better than trying to sleep under a hoochy in pouring rain, believe me. A hoochy is a sheet of very light camouflage materialabout six feet (2 metres) long and roughly the width of a body, which at night is tied each end to a handy bush or tree if available and is supposed to protect a soldier from the weather. What a joke. I’ve spent more than one freezing night as an ARA chaplain, getting soaked to the skin under a hoochy. They would be handy for wrapping up the body of a dead soldier. 

Oh well, I’ve been prattling away so will sign off. Janet is long gone; went for a walk around the deck, leaving me to write to you. It’s 15.40, the sun is shining through light cloud, the swells of the sea are moving our vessel side to side in a  soothing motion … rock the baby gently…

2100 hrs. 

     As I write, the weather has deteriorated and we are rocking and rolling through a heavy swell hitting us, hitting us on the starboard beam, so from the west, from where so much bad Bass strait weather hails. It’s bad enough for them to cancel the later show tonight because the performers would not be able to stand. Janet is somewhere out there looking at The Great Gatsby show that is being put on tonight. Many of the passengers dress up for it in  the style of the day .. the 1920’s I think.

    Anyway, on more important issues, the powerful winds around the bottom of the planet travel from west to east. In the great days of sail, fabled wool and tea clippers, like Cutty Sark, Ariel, Lightning, Taeping, on their way to Australia used to streak down past the Cape of Good Hope, Africa, and travel as far south as possible to catch the mighty winds of the roaring forties, travelling from the west to the east, so they’d have the wind behind them. They threw up every piece of canvas possible, slicing through the giant waves of the roaring forties at 30-plus knots, doing times from England to Australia not much behind modern ships. In fact Lightningholds a record that stands to this day.

Some bad news. Somehow someone failed to note that I have a church service tomorrow morning at 0800. It was not included in the ship’s paper, which means that no one will know about it and nothing will be set up. I saw Matthew the assistant cruise director who has gone into a slight panic mode – but now the service will be in an entirely different location  – and I told the folk today it would be in the same spot! Matthew says it will be broadcast on the TV and will get a plug tomorrow morning, but I wonder if he’ll remember to put on the man who arranges the speaker system, have chairs set up and a lectern and have the orders of service sent up? Our God will have some trouble putting this one right. All we can do is watch and pray.

Tuesday 25 December in the year of grace, 2018:

CHRISTMAS DAY. 2100 hours:

Pacific Jewel

AT SEA

    As I write, our gallant vessel is steaming northwards, up the east coast of Tasmania, bound for the port of Burnie. Tonight some time we will pass between Swan Island and Clark Island, then set a westerly course passing to the north of Waterhouse Island.

    We left Port Arthur, with its grim history of violence and death about 15.00 hrs. We expect to berth in Burnie about 0900 tomorrow.

Let me take you back to where my former missive ended as I deplored the fact that our church service for Christmas Eve had not been advertised in the ship’s news sheet – which meant no one would know that it was due to be held. I’ll resume from there.

    That evening I rushed about, trying to find the assistant cruise director, Matthew, to advise him of the fact, but he is always unbelievably busy – especially at night, running the night show, out on the stage, going flat-strap. I feel rather sorry for him because so much is loaded on him and he is expected to keep smiling, do lots of organizing and ensure everything runs smoothly. (In a funny sort of a way I equate his duties as not dissimilar to that of a parish minister). I told him that according to the ship’s paper, the Dome was to be occupied by some Pilates group. Finally I managed to pin him down. He was surprised. He said he’d advertise it on the TV (which isn’t much good, for that would not be until the following morning, early, when few listen). Anyway, that was the best he could do in the circumstances. Thus my emotions had gone from low to high, after the success of the first service, despite some problems, to low again – but thankfully … more like anxiety. I’d also noted that Matthew was already looking stressed so wondered if he would remember to have the Orient room set up for a service. 

As it turned out, my fears were realized. By 0730 it was obvious to me  that nothing had been done. I rushed to the Purser’s desk and told them of the problem. Lots of consternation, lots of apologies, people running about, trying to get done in about 20 minutes what would have taken an hour to get ready the night before. As I waited in the Orient room a young woman came to put up a notice on a stand on each of the two doors leading into the Orient room that a church service would be in progress. At that stage there was no one to attend to the sound system which I needed, to play the carols via my laptop and also for the sermon, prayers, readings. Just then Janet came rushing in: “Tony – that girl who put up the notices of a church service has put up the ones that indicate it will be a CATHOLIC Service!” What else could go wrong? She rushed off to get the right ones. The sound man (Edward, a Filipino, arrived but was unaware of what I really needed, and an occasional person began to show up.

Finally the service started – but instead of the numbers I hoped for, here on Christmas Eve, we had a total of twelve. 

    At the end of. the Service, I thanked them for being there and concluded it was at least good to have twelve present. 

    “Thirteen!” a voice piped up. It was Edward the sound man, a devout little Christian but unable to attend services because of his work load. Edward said he loved the service and wanted to be counted as one present as a worshipper, not simply the sound man (regulating the volume etc). I thought  that was very touching.

Later in the day, Matthew found me and was full of apologies. “I’ve ensured the details of the service will be tonight’s paper. The orders of service will be there – and you are back in the Dome!” I was really relieved and so Janet and I could go ashore in Hobart town and not worry.

Amazingly, our journey into Hobart town got no further than the Old Constitution Docks. I was utterly captivated by the numbers of historic sailing craft that met my gaze, including the square rigger, Lady Nelson (which takes passengers to sea), and a 19th/early 20thcentury trading ketch, used to carry supplies to and from Tasmania. There is a picture of one at “Puddleby” our house! There are only four of the type left in the world. This one is May Queen. There were vessels, including the famous 50ft ketch Westward, which won line honors in the first Sydney-Hobart race in 1947, and again in 1948. I’ve read a lot about her. She’s a beautiful, classic yacht, a double-ender. I took photo after photo of them all.

One would have thought that would have been the end of it – but we got only as far as the Tasmanian Maritime Museum! We must have spent a couple of hours there. There is everything relating to Tasmania’s long and proud history of the sea, including figure heads from sailing ships, models of famous ships, histories of the 1100 ship wrecks that dot Tasmania’s rugged coastline. 

    We’ve been moving about the ship, meeting interesting folk from various walks of life. I even managed to sell one of the two copies of my books I brought with me: “What the Bible Really Says About Women.” Another lady is very interested in purchasing the “God Ghosts Ghouls” book. Janet has attended most of the shows, but the noise drives me out. I can’t stand it and don’t know why I alone appear to have such sensitive ears. I see even old dears sitting, listening, as someone screeches noisily into a microphone, accompanied by others banging away noisily on drums and things.

And so I came to this happy day – Christmas Day, and to our 0800 service. Rolando, another Filipino, was my sound man. He was at the first service so knew the ropes.  The Dome is a great place for the service – quite light (unlike the Orient, which is one of those dark hole in the wall places). There were about thirty chairs set up. People began to drift in. To my delight, those chairs were filled – and then more and more arrived, until at last we filled the Done! It was so uplifting, and unlike the other two services,  there were young people and children. It was a joyful service, commencing with the first carol, “Joy to the World.” I had a couple of people read the lessons and everyone  sang the carols heartily and joyfully. It was a really wonderful and uplifting service and many said they really enjoyed the sermon. It was all over in something under the hour.

The good news for me personally was that the services finished on a happy note; a joyful note and I thank God for that. So much for those times when we are overcome with the world. God has a way of lifting us from depressions and woes and ills and reassuring us that. He will never leave us or forsake us.

Later, Janet and I got on a tender and went over to explore Port Arthur. So much of it is now missing, but moving around the numerous sandstone buildings and grim prisons is an experience in which the past seems to live on; especially seeing some of the little bits of graffiti here and there that convicts managed to carve into the sandstone – usually just their names.

We all had to be back on board by 15.00 and shortly after we heard the mud hook clanking up the hawser. We can’t help hearing it: our cabin seems to be exactly above it. We could hear the sailors singing a sea shanty (it wasThe Rio Grandeas they manned the capstan, dragging that lump of iron off the bottom of the ocean …. Well, we would have heard them, a couple of hundred years ago. Anyway, do you know that sea shanty? I seem to recall the words, so I’ll sing it to you when next we see you.

    I was really surprised to see that one of the entertainments this evening was an hour of Christmas Carols, sung by the ship’s senior officers, so decide to be there. They weren’t bad, I must say. We had a programme. Unfortunately, they missed out on one carol and cut half the verses out of another, which was really disappointing, for what has been desperately needed on this ship is a spirit of the true meaning of Christmas, remembering the Reason for the season with reverence and joy, honouring the Name that is above every other name with heart and mind and soul and voice.

    Oh well, once again I have babbled on with some inconsequential stuff, but have a read anyway. 

Janet is in the land of nod but as it is only 22.55  I find it hard to relax. Walking all around Port Arthur was not a good idea for her, for her old nurse’s knees are giving her curry.

I’ll gang awa’ the noo, and may God bless you all this Merry Christmastide, and may its blessings follow you all through the Bright New Year, until it becomes the Old new year again.

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Free at Last …

Happy days! The graduation at Newcastle University on 21 April was an unforgettable experience…. students from faculties various graduating with their degrees, wearing many differently coloured hoods to mark the discipline they belonged to – teachers, scientists and so forth. I was very surprised when I noted the number of us graduating as Masters of Theology. Our hood is sombre, compared to many of the others… black, and lined in ‘pearl’ (really, an off-white. It’s the same, we were told, as those worn by MA graduates at Cambridge. All the graduates also wore their trenchers, or mortar boards.

We were seated in rows. All the M.Th graduates were together  and most appeared to be young women.

Looking like an intoxicated owl

I was told that for those teachers wishing to teach in Roman Catholic schools, it was necessary to have a theological qualification, so many seem to have decided on a senior theological qualification. When it was our turn to be handed our degree by the Chancellor of the University, each row was called up in turn…. out the front, up the stairs onto the stage, wait until name called, walk past the row of Ph.Ds (acknowledge them), take the degree, shake the chancellor’s hand, turn and smile at the camera, depart. Finally, it was all over. Later, Janet. took my photo out in the garden near the dining area. I must have been in a bit of a daze, for I bear a distinct resemblance to a slightly intoxicated owl.

I’ve had only one other graduation and that was from the United Faculty of Theology, St Andrew’s College at  the University of Sydney, in 1969, which qualified me to be ordained the following year as a minister of the Presbyterian Church. In those days, only about twelve of us graduated… a very low key affair. Any other awards I’ve received have been ‘in absentia’ and came to me in time through the mail.

Now that I am free of the study scene, and with an M.Th under my belt, I should be free to be more in contact, unlike the days of old. I feel so much stronger now that I am relieved of the burden of study and reflection on matters deep and theological  – although I am tied into conducting quite a few services around the traps, as far down as St Ives.

Now for some more relaxed news … The other day I mowed the lawn here at “Puddleby Corner”  but didn’t start early enough. It. was a hottish day for autumn,  so by the time I finished I was a 5ft 6in. ball of glistening white lard, staggering about, hanging onto the self-propelled lawnmower, which went wherever its noisy little heart desired. Later, in the cool of the evening, I did the edges with that horrible trimmer thing – yes – the very one that earned me the unfortunate title of “the man of a thousand lashes”. It took ages for the ten thousand lashes up my leg made by the whipper-snipper to fade, after taking about half a second to acquire. That should have taught me to wear long trews, given my unfortunate propensity for ganging about my duties clumsily and with scant attention to what may happen. There’s a mile of difference between mowing lawns and gardening, and doing a bit of solid study. I have a feeling that by nature and build, I’m more suited to the latter. That way we are all safer.

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The Hysteria Meter

The ability I have for irritating people from time to time is best revealed when they want me to do something intelligent. I have a thing in my head that I call my “hysteria meter”. The needle indicates the level of hysteria in people who are trying to help me do something a bit on the techno side – and somehow, nothing clicks.

The other day my Canberra brother, who has a highly developed technological brain, was attempting help me do something on my computer, ‘talking me through’ by phone. I could hear his hysteria levels rising: “On the LEFT side of the screen! Up under the bar that reads FILE! You must be able to see it!”

“Huh? Wha – ? I can’t see it – it’s definitely not there.”

A silence follows. I have a mental picture of my brother on his back on the floor, banging his head on the carpet; or kicking his little legs in the air in despair, or perhaps he’s run outside to scream, or perhaps all of the above…
Finally: “Is Heather there?”

“As a matter of fact, she is. Would you like to talk to  her?”

“Please”. The tone almost qualifies as a prayer. His hysteria level is off the planet.

Our daughter  arrives. Three minutes later, the job is done.

When following directions, nothing seems to happen the way it’s meant to happen. In my childhood, the usual method of dealing with obtuseness was to attempt to beat intelligence into children, so I received many from those teachers who taught technical drawing, woodwork, science and other subjects that required a practical mind. My father too – a very practical farming type, used the same tactic, but none worked, and an incident yesterday in a certain supermarket is indicative. (By the way, the photo in this story was not taken in the store where the incident occurred. It’s for demonstration purposes only).

Janet has a touching belief, despite evidence to the contrary, that her husband is capable of carrying out simple household chores without supervision. Every now and then her belief must be put to the test, but somehow only temporarily…

Her forgettery must have been working overtime yesterday when she sent me to a supermarket to purchase a few items she needed … bread and so forth. Overjoyed at her confidence, and promising faithfully to read the list of what was required, I set off jauntily, feeling very important and grown-up.
At the supermarket I browsed around the aisles until I had all the items on the list. When I approached the check-out lanes I was dismayed to see that all had people queuing, so decided to use one of those self-pay booths popular these days. I told the young attendant I wasn’t sure how the self-pay things work, so he came over to help me. He had a bright, smiling and helpful countenance and appeared eager to make certain my experience was without incident…

“Here we are, sir. Put the bread there … no, no – so the bar code faces the scanner”.

I turned the bread around several times… bar code… bar code.. that little line of black things…. Can’t find it. He watched me for a while, then with a smile removed the item from my grasp .

“It’s here” he said, pointing. I put it near the scanner, and nothing happened. The young man still kept his cool. He took the bread from me and held it up to the scanner – PING – off it went immediately.

“That wasn’t hard now, was it sir? Now you can try. Put the next one on. Don’t be frightened. It won’t bite.”

I did. Nothing. It refused to ping. I could sense the helpful young man was finding me a bit of a challenge. The hysteria metre needle was starting an upward swing, just like the tachometer in your car, counting the revs.

He took the item and placed it in position: PING – again it it went off obediently.

“Put the next one on sir”. The smile was still there – just a tad uncertain now, and I noted a certain tightness had crept into his voice. (A lady at another machine was trying not to watch but she couldn’t help it.  Glancing over, I saw her sides heaving. Then I realised she was giggling). Nervously I put the next item on the little platform: PING PING PING PING. The one item registered four times. I tell you the truth. The young attendant’s jaw dropped. His eyes nearly popped out of his head.

“What the – I’ve never seen it do that before!” (Hysteria needle now in the red zone). He stepped up to the wretched machine and did various adjustments to remove the excess payments.

Only one more item to go. The young attendant looked at it, then me, and nodded nervously. I held it up to the scanner. Nothing. “Wave it in front of the scanner, sir!” (Hysteria level now well into the red. Engine just short of seizing…). I waved it.. “SLOWER – WAVE IT MORE SLOWLY!” Young attendant’s fingers were making clutching motions – a sure sign of advanced hysteria… Finally: PING! It worked!

Young man tottered to the register. “Put your card in, please – NO – your bank card! Library cards won’t work in this machine!!!” (Hysteria level registering ‘Frantic’)

At last the nightmare was over and I tottered thankfully from the store. Glancing back I noted the lady was shaking her head, chortling. I could almost imagine her thoughts – useless male!

Back home at last, I threw the bag on the table. “Home, Janet. Got the lot!”

“That’s fine dear. Any worries?” I noted the very slight tic in my wife’s left eye. It pops in at hysteria level 01: husband out alone, unsupervised …

“Went like a night- I mean, dream”.
Oh well, that was yesterday’s effort. I’ve promised myself I won’t tell Janet what really happened. Please don’t dob me in. We don’t want to worry her unduly, do we?