Reader: 

“They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them”.

Response:

“Lest we forget"

We had an act of remembrance as near to 11 am as we could get it, led jointly by an ex-service congregation member who'd served in the Falklands and Mr T.  It was very moving, thinking of all those we have seen recently in the news, as well as those in less recent wars.

The key phrase is “as near to 11am as we could get it.  As near as we could get it was 10:45am.  Mr T put together a thoughtful introduction, prayers, a few hymns and the choir sang an anthem to lead up to that section of the service.  And he double checked it with a few others to see if the timings worked. Everyone thought there was enough content to last until 10:55am.  With the reading of the Binyon poem, a PowerPoint showing the names of fallen from our congregation, the two minutes silence would have been more or less on time.  Only that morning, everyone was wrong.  We were early.

With no plan B – no extra hymns, prayers or readings in reserve –The Minister in this situation is left with two fairly hard choices:

• Make something up on the fly so the Silence takes place at the right time.  Fine as it ensures that everything happens when it’s meant too, but it does create the potential to kill the reflective mood amongst the congregation you’ve worked so hard to create.  (I'm not just saying this because my husband did it, but it was a really good service).

 Or

• Go head with what you’ve planned.  The silence doesn’t take place at the right time, but the mood is maintained.  (Unless someone looks at their watch). 

Mr T went with the second option.  Most of the congregation didn’t say anything to him directly.  (Not sure what comments Mr T’s boss got though).  Of the few that did, some weren’t particularly bothered but others felt it detracted slightly but the Act of Remembrance was the key thing.  Another said that he’d never been to a Remembrance Service that had been on time ever - including the ones he’d attended when he was Mayor.  Only one person was actively hostile, describing the mis-timing as “appalling”. Mr T told me all the names except the last one!  Most vicar's spouses have a mental list of congregation members who'd Really Benefit From A Piece Of Their Mind.  He decided not to add another name to mine.  

Since the Tubblet started school, we’ve either just had nits, have nits or are just about to have nits.  Niiiice.  Apart from the school holidays.  Limited contact with other children means No Nits.  (Sadly not a practical, all year round prevention method).

We used the Jamie Oliver cookbook for dinner again so here’s another recipe.  This is from Grub on a Grant, a book that got a lot of usage whilst I was at University.  It also got used after I’d left when there was too much month left at the end of the money but we still fancied something nice on a Friday.  I’d probably still have it if it hadn’t dived into a full sink.  

They’ll also be adding books by Billy Graham, Rick Warren, Bill Hybels, John McArthur, James Dobson, Charles Swindoll, John Piper, Chuck Colson, Tony Evans, Oral Roberts, Jimmy Swagart, Mark Driskol, Franklin Graham, Bill Bright, Tim Lahaye, Paula White, T.D. Jakes, Benny Hinn, Joyce Myers, Brian McLaren, Robert Schuller, Mother Teresa, The Pope, Rob Bell, Erwin McManus, Donald Miller, Shane Claiborne, Brennan Manning and William Young to the pile.  (Not heard of all of them, but books by Swindoll, McLaren, Bell, Colson are on our book shelves).  And “Satan's music such as country, rap, rock, pop, heavy metal, western, soft and easy, southern gospel, contemporary Christian, jazz, soul (and) oldies”.  (Bang goes all of the contents of my IPOD!)

I’m not sure what chills the blood more, the book burning or the burning of books that others consider the word of God.  On reflection, it’s both.  I can’t find the quote, but Mousethief on SOF did a lovely paraphrase, “[The author would] rather be tortured by an person who realized he was torturing him, because they might have a pricking of conscience and stop, than by somebody who thought he was doing him good and didn't see what he was doing as torture at all. No opportunity for conscience to pull the brakes, because conscience is what drives him in the first place”.

What do women want?  My list includes – but is not limited too – a decent cup of coffee and some cake; a magic credit card that enables you to “charge it” without the need to pay it all back; a tenant in our old house; less work for more money; to go down a dress size; the prefect lipstick; my mum and dad to not be ill and for The One to teach me the Argentine Tango. 

Mr T managed to get pictures of the gerbils.  Troy is the black one in the yellow house and Chad is the brownie / grey one poking his head out from underneath the sawdust.  It’s an action shot, so they’re being busy, but you don't get to hear them rustle and squeak.  (And yes, they have been attempting to chew the curtains).

Back to Church Sunday aims to get people to go back to church by bribing them with “free chocolate and a bookmark”.  (That could be a fib btw).  Addressing the reasons why people leave in the first place OR wouldn’t seen within a five mile radius of a pew might also be helpful, but every little helps.  If you fancy coming to see us this Sunday morning, then you’d be most welcome.  (Mr T isn’t preaching.  I’m not sure if that would be considered a plus or a minus!  Currently I am trying to negotiate a going rate for references to Stuff My Wife Does In Sermons.  I’m hoping to agree a price for each pre-agreed example and double that for anything used without permission.  So far with little success.  TBF, he is very good. So far the only time I've been mentioned in a sermon is when he told everyone I was addicted to coffee.  Although we do have a fridge magnet that says, "No Coffee No Workee", I'm not sure that a love of good coffee shops and a one a day Pret habit actually counts as an addiction!).

made me chuckle: 

 

I know, two entries in one day!  But I’ve been meaning to write this up for ages.   Seeing U2 with 88,000 of our new best friends was absolutely amazing.  We had a fantastic time and sang ourselves hoarse.  We had really good seats, about eight rows back from the front so we could see really well.  (Light show was stunning).  The group next to us seem to have confused the concert with the pub.  Every 20 minutes or so one of them would get up to go and buy more Carlsberg.  At £3 a pint!

We were near the celebrity backstage area.   Alex Baldwin was hanging about with some friends near the ladies.  (I nearly bumped into him in my haste to get to the toilet and out again before the next song started).  Noel Gallagher walked to the backstage section through the public standing area.  (He has Very Stupid Hair).  Noel was having a great time, waving at everyone and grinning away.  His partner was about 20 steps ahead, ramrod straight back, radiating unhappiness.  We thought she’d wanted to go through the back way so they didn’t get stared at and been over-ruled.  

Mr T managed to get hold of my phone and, despite what he told everyone via text message, we didn’t see RA.  At all.  Neither in skin tight jeans or being escorted off the premises for being drunk and disorderly.  

It was a bit like this, only much further away.  (Link to Youtube video.  Sadly, I can't embed it). 

Main set: 

Breathe

No Line on the Horizon

Get On Your Boots

Magnificent

Beautiful Day with snippets of London Calling, London Bridges and Blackbird.

Elevation

I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For with a tiny bit of Movin' On Up

Stuck In A Moment You Can't Get Out Of

Unknown Caller

The Unforgettable Fire

City Of Blinding Lights

Vertigo  

I'll Go Crazy If I Don't Go Crazy Tonight with snippets of Two Tribes (!) and O Come All Ye Faithful

Sunday Bloody Sunday with throwaway mention of Rock The Casbah

Pride (In The Name Of Love)

MLK

Walk On with a snippet of You'll Never Walk Alone

Where The Streets Have No Name with brief Acquiesce snippet

Mysterious Wayswith brief Norwegian Wood snippet

Encores:

Ultraviolet (Light My Way)

With Or Without You

Moment of Surrender

 
Elbow were also fantastic!  (Really want to see them now!)

Due to a famine of information and programmes about The One, my imagination has been filling the gaps.  Elsewhere we’ve been talking about If Guy Was A Rock Star, What Would He Be Like.  Musically Depeche Mode would be a good fit – somewhat bleak with touches of very black humour.  Guy would have to be the lead singer so that makes him Dave Gahan .  Supporting evidence can be found here:

 

Dave Gahan has an honours degree from the Mick Jagger School of Stage Craft.  Shortly before this song, he was whirling his waist coat over his head whilst singing and dancing.  (Who says men can’t multi-task).  Now, imagine the same thing, but with Guy doing it.  Case closed. 

Some anniversaries you don’t want to dwell on.  16^th September was the first anniversary of The US Government Bailout.  Whilst I can’t comment on the affect of George’s actions on the global economy - or whether it was the right thing to do - I can tell you that it had good effect on my local one.  I Am Still Employed.  Thanks George.  (Never thought I’d type that without the Apocalypse being imminent).
 
This is a bit random, but worth sharing.  Thanks to an article on girl’s comics in the Guardian, I found the Misty comics website.  Oh my word, total nostalgia fest!  (Sadly the only other comic strip from that era that I'd love to see again, Patty's World, is the subject of a fairly heated copyright dispute between IPC and the artist, Purita Campos.  The only collected editon is in Spanish.  *Bugger*) 

The Tubblet has been (less than) quietly campaigning for a pet since we moved.  We’d fobbed her off with various excuses – not our house, Mr T’s boss had said no etc.

We’d had goldfish for a while, but none of them lasted more than a week or so.  We’d come down in the mornings to discover one or both of them floating on top of the water.  Attempts by the Tubblet to boss them back to life by yelling, “Swimming!” at the top of her voice were unsuccessful.  After we got to Charlie and Lola Mark 5, we decided enough was enough.  It is official, we are Goldfish Death. 

The Tubblet is now 6 and she asked for a pet for her birthday.  She offered to put her savings towards it.  (She’d been saving for a year on the quiet.  That shows how determined she was).  We caved.  (We’re either loving, caring parents or weak minded fools depending on your viewpoint).  We asked the vets at church, Alan and Susanna, about suitable pets for small children that a) aren’t much work and b) have a reasonable life span and c) aren’t either cats or dogs and d) won’t cost a small fortune to buy and maintain.  They suggested gerbils - friendly, inquisitive, sociable and love digging.  They don’t need a lot of work – feed and water once a day; clean the cage out every 2 – 3 weeks.  (The not much work aspect is very important as that’s my job).  They’re awake during the day, which is brilliant as the Tubblet gets to see them.

Please say hello and welcome to the two new additions to the Tubbs family – Troy and Chad.  Troy is black whilst Chad is a shade of grey.  The Tubblet named them after the leads in High School Musical.  (I suggested Gizzy and Bobbin whilst Mr T wanted Yoda and Chewie).  They seem to have a No Publicity Clause in their contracts as they’ve been with us three weeks and Mr T still hasn’t managed to take a picture of them.  So here's one I found on the web:

In homage to the late London Paper’s Pet of the Day feature:

Gerbils:  Troy and Chad

Age:  12 weeks old or there abouts

Sex:  Male.  (We hope!  Boy and girl gerbils led to lots more gerbils!)

Likes:  Chewing, particularly toilet rolls and their yellow plastic house.  Digging, tunnelling and attempting to escape.  (Troy has already made his first bid for freedom.  Mr T is thinking of buying him a motor bike.  He is the Cooler King). 

Dislikes:  The Dustbuster. 

And the Tubblet loves them. 

The Tubblet started back at school today.  She’s now in year 1 and looked very grown up in her new school outfit.  And that reminded me of this passage I found in a book I got free in a woman’s magazine – Samantha Smythe’s Modern Family Journal.  (Magazines are Bad For Me because the images of women they portray aren’t very realistic and they make me discontented with my lot.  And they're expensive.  But still I buy them).  Even though it’s talking about playgroup, some of the things still apply:

The Rules of Playgroup

Negotiating the unspoken rules and regulations of playgroup is like a complicated dance of courtship.  At the base of this precarious structure is the knowledge that, by joining a playgroup, every mother is accepting an unspoken deal that she knows has to be made.  There are some women you will like.  Some you can’t stand.  But this relationship is based on the fact that you have children of a similar age, that you wish your children to have friends and that is why you are there.  You must therefore observe many rules of engagement when it comes to socialising with playgroup mothers:

Rule Number1.  All children need friends therefore you must be friendly with other mothers.  You must make them like you, or at least pity you, for then they will invite you and your age-appropriate offspring to your house to play.  This will take the guise of, “Oh you really must come for a coffee”.  The appropriate response to this is, “Of course, how kind”, unless you really hate the person doing the asking in which case you must say, “The twenty-fourth?  Why, I am busy saving the world / going to an older child’s assembly / getting my mother’s car serviced that day”.

Rule Number 2.  The popularity of your child is a Catch 22.  This is how it goes – the more popular your child is, the more other mothers will think, “Gosh, there’s a popular little [person] I wonder if (name of child) would like to be friends with that popular little [person] because then, maybe that popular little [person’s] popularity might rub off on up-until-now-unpopular (name of child) and make him more popular.

Rule Number 3.  This means you must practice being nice.  You must learn to bake and have proper tea in your house in your house and nice things for other mothers’ children to eat.  You must not be offish or patronising.  You must take a small present over to their houses when they ask you for tea.  A scented candle should do the trick.

Rule Number 4.  You seriously have to watch that competitive mothering.  … 

[ETA – Comment by Mrs T:  You also have to be very careful about making any remark that could be seen by another parent as a criticism of their parenting choices.  Every parent has their own model of parenting.  And that model is totally right.  Once you accept that and learn to keep your thoughts to yourself, it saves a lot of unnecessary aggregation.  There are, of course, exceptions to this rule.  But, thankfully, I have never had to deal with them as yet.  Mr T did a load of stuff on child protection as part of his course and he said it was beyond foul].  

Rule Number 5.  When playground mothers tell you that little (name of child) goes to Tumbletots, Monkey Music, football, baby judo, tots yoga, toddler singing lessons, tiny tots acting classes, sea cubs, mini hockey and rugby and cricket and Brazilian football and they also swim, instead of saying, “Jesus!  How on earth can any child cope with doing all that?” you should say, “Gosh, [s/he] sounds so talented”.

Rule Number 6.  Conversely, you have to try to feel less miserable about (name of child)’s talents and the seeming lack of talent of your own children.  For have I not been moved by the achievements of my friend’s children?

[ETA:  We were never particularly good at any of the above.  I worked and Mr T was a house-husband.  We are also Professionally Religious.  Triple weirdo points.  But we muddled through and made friends with, “a mish-mash of funny, witty, irreverent [people] ... who had learned over the years to take the whole experience with a rather large pile of salt”. See this article for more of the same].

Comment on this and I will pick 6 icons for you.  Meme from Hulamoth

Dalek.  Eddie Izzard offers cake or death, whilst a Dalek offers tea or extermination.  As a hosting style, it’s pretty extreme, but no one would ever forget the time they spent at your house.

I do love Doctor Who and have pretty much stuck with it since the theme tune had me diving behind the sofa.  Apart from dark days of The Longford when I didn’t watch it because it was crap.  (I may be a fan-woman, but I have standards).  And if Mr T is reading this, of course I dream about being a companion and travelling through time and space in the Tardis whilst saving the world.  Amongst other things. 

Doctor.  It is a mystery to me how anyone can look good in a bright orange jumpsuit.  But The One manages it.   *Sigh*

Jawdrop.  Because a picture says a thousand words.  And the words this one usually says are WTF?!  (I know swearing is neither big nor clever.  But it doesn’t stop me doing it).

Someone shoot her.  According to Mr T, costume dramas are precious waste of screen time.  Although, having waved “Pride and Prejudice and Zombies” at him, he has come round to the idea that they can be improved by giving them a “Night of the Living Dead” style make over and introducing some Ninjas.  Even though the book is utter tosh and all the good bits are from Austin, I read it in less than a day.  And really enjoyed it.   (It probably only works if you’re really familiar with the original novel and aren’t particularly precious about someone taking the mickey out of your favourite fiction).  There's talk of a film.  It would be fantastic if they played the whole thing very straight, in the style of BBC costume drama with a quality cast.

Fangirls.  A whole meditation about the nature of fandom in one small picture and a few well chosen words.  Spikesbint is very clever. 

Belle.  If I stopped day dreaming and applied myself, I’d be unstoppable … but … shrug.

The Tubblet is safely ensconced at her grandparents for three sleeps.  Mr T and I are home alone!  So we go on a date Up London after I’d finished work and Mr T’s Product Red focus group was over. 

The plan was to go to Wahaca but we couldn’t get a table until 9:30 – about an 1 ½ wait.  We decided this was a bad idea.  We were both starving and would be completely plastered on mojitos by that time.  So we go in search of a restaurant.  He doesn’t want Italian or French and I don’t want curry or Chinese.  (I’d read a review of Yalla Yalla but didn’t bring it with me and attempts to find it failed dismally.  The copy of the London Paper I picked up to read on the train journey home had a review of it.  The reviewer described it as “hard to find”.  He was not wrong).

We are unable to decide or agree on anything.  In either Theatre Land or Soho.  Words Are Said.  Attempts at Blame Allocation are made.  The Shaggy defence is adopted.  (The shaggy defence = "It wasn't me ...")  There is Silence.  And Sulking.  Eventually we wander toward the tube and into the first restaurant we find – Kerala Restaurant.  A curry hut.  Not quite what I was hoping for but at least there was going to be food.  I half expected the evening to end with toast at home.  We sit down to eat at 9:30pm.  (Yes, I know!)  Beer and food restore normality and happy feelings.  It was The Best Curry Ever.  I would have licked my plate clean if I thought I’d have got away with it.  And I think Mr T would have as well.  I had a prawn birani that came with sides and Mr T had a lamb thing with lemon rice and some bread.  The staff were delightful – very kind and happy to explain what went with what.  
 

Mr T didn’t get to meet Bono at the Product Red focus group btw.  If he was there, he would have been behind the glass screen listening in.  Just as well, as I would never have got my face out of the cat’s bum position.  Concert on Friday.  Only one more sleep!     

[Edited to add:   We saw the Living Statue in Trafalgar Square.  The chap we saw looked like he was just about to juggle when we went past. Amazing stuff!  Free art!  We missed the chap who stripped]

Have finally succumbed to Twitter.  Given that it takes me a paragraph to say most things, 140 words or less is going to be quite a challenge.  

On the day I sign up, I catch sight of Mark Howe’s latest column on Ship of Fools, “Confessions of a Twitter Virgin”  A new one in the confessions series.   (Mark has the brain the size of a planet and he really does talk like that.  Only twice as fast!)

David Tennant commented:

“He said: "Twitter? Noooo. 'I'm having a cup of tea' Who cares? There's plenty of people pretending to be me on Twitter.

"They can tell you that they're having a cup of tea. It'll just be the same. It'll be a different cup of tea but the information's the same."

Ah yes, but you will find a number of old friends you haven't spoken to in a while to drink that virtual cup of tea with.  And there's insider gossip on movie type project thingeys that only you and several hundred other followers will hear. 
 

And continue, “No more working for a week or two.

Fun and laughter on a summer holiday.

No more worries for me and you.

For a week or two”.