And So, In a Very Real Sense…
I realise this is getting repetitive. At this rate Robbing Hood of Canterbury will soon have featured in as many of my posts as Her Non-Royal Fergieness, but I have to add my voice to the many who’ve suggested that the Archbishop shut up and put his own crumbling house in order.
I haven’t been to look at the St Paul’s encampment. From the photos I’ve seen it doesn’t look very big and the first snows will no doubt clear the few who are there. How pathetic though to hear Health & Safety invoked as a reason Remembrance Day ceremonies may be curtailed. For this scaredy-cat State men gave their lives? The only thing that’s amused me in all this is the revelation that the protesters hold twice-daily soviets at which all decisions are taken. Anarchists’ committee meetings.I’ll bet you don’t come away from one of those with much change out of three hours. Still, it must help fill the time. I mean, once you’ve picked up your giro and a pack of Rizla papers, what else is there to do all day?
I’m on holiday, pending a book edit, and using my time to catch up on the reading I don’t do when I’m in working mode. I’ve just finished Eric Metaxas’s excellent biography of Dietrich Bonhoeffer and have now moved on to John Lennox’s God’s Undertaker. I’m always delighted when someone with a clear head takes on Richard Dawkins. By his own lights he’s nothing but a purposeless swirl of carbon, oxygen and hydrogen but his arrogant whine and his shoddy science infuriate me.
But time to lighten up. Find of the week (hat tip to Rod Conway Morris) is Robert Graves’s A Welsh Incident. I’m going to read it to Mr F in my best Llandeilo accent in a bid to get him out of bed. He’s come back from Venice with a prostrating head cold and frankly I’m getting tired of peeling grapes.
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