Month: October 2025

Grey, rainy day here at Differential Hermeneutics Central. I didn’t run in the chilly rain, so I began my day with a mug of coffee and fruit, then trundled in to Morning Prayer, then home for a second cup and some toast, and to see Margaret off to her travel to Nottingham to lead a session at the branch office of St Mellitus College tomorrow. Meanwhile I’ll keep busy with digital (mostly) paperwork and care for the ladies here. All told, I’m anticipating a quiet day at Enock House.

Oh, by the way: the weekend’s videos from the President of the US make clear the radical difference between him and every other one of his predecessors. He redefines the notion of ‘unfit for office’; as someone remarked on social media, if a shop clerk at Aldi’s had posted an animated video of themself dumping excrement on Aldi’s customers, they would no longer be ‘a shop clerk at Aldi’s’. One can only hope that the monumental scale of the ‘No Kings’ (no shade to HM the King, though I might be persuaded to sympathise with a ‘One Fewer Prince’ lobby) foreshadows a similar turn out at midterm elections, should the current occupant of the White House not try to suppress them. A few impeachments, a few expulsions should clarify the minds of his strategic supporters.

Today was a three-service-special: Sun g Mass at St Michael’s, Baptism in the afternoon at St Helen’s, and back to St Helen’s for Evensong. So I prepared for the day with a slow but reasonable two-mile run, coffee, fruit, shower, and off we go, first to St Mike’s. All went well, I strolled home and rested till about 2:30 when I headed off to St Helen’s. We had a lovely baptism (one parent, two young ’uns), picked up some groceries, hopped home for forty-five minutes or so, then back to St Helen’s for Evensong, which — after I announced the wrong Office Hymn (don’t know where I got that number). Now we’re watching Only Connect, and shortly will turn in.

Today feels good. I had a wee lie-in (went to bed late from watching the most recent series of The Bear and then trying to fix the display numbers on Margaret’s iPhone) (we both strongly dislike Liquid Glass), so I got plenty of sleep but a late start. On my run, my legs felt tight rather than elastic, so I didn’t press them; and my breathing felt shallow and laboured, so I took deep breaths and then picked up the pace a little since I typically slow down when I turn my attention to breathing. I got him figuring that I’d gone another slower time, as yesterday. But, no! It was another run at just about the pre-tax average, so things are settling back to usual. I feel fine; even my bruised arm doesn’t hurt much any more.

Then Margaret and I listened first to the ‘Take On Me’ episode of Song Exploder, then followed up with James Acaster’s appreciation of OutKast’s ‘Hey Ya!’. I have never been an intense fan of ‘Take On Me’, but it heightened my appreciation of the track as intricate pop music; and the hook has embedded itself in my aural consciousness as it ought (and I’ve come to respect the conjunction of the bridge with the song that surrounds it). I do like ‘Hey Ya!’, and James Acaster’s part in the podcast came mostly in enhancing my appreciation of him — but he called our attention to the fact (which he, a drummer, noticed right away) that OutKast drops from 4/4 to 2/4 at intervals during the song (Margaret and I argued about when, till we noticed that he does it often, including both times to which we were pointing).

Had a FaceTime chat with Josiah, Thomas, and Lydia this afternoon, where we learned about Grogu and his magic storage device, and the giraffe at the Indianapolis Zoo that apparently stuck its head into a tree but was not eating. And the very exciting orchard they visited with a long slide. Life is exhilarating for Harris-Adams in Indianapolis.

My morning run — it’s been a while since I could say that! — came in at a slower-than-average time, though as a progression from two walks sandwiched around a no-go day, it’s easily understood and welcome as a step toward my regular exercise regimen. Put out the bins, have a cup of coffee, fruit, clean up, and go to Morning Prayer. I may have public office hours, or may come back home before I catch the bus into Oxford for the New Testament Seminar (this week, David Downs’s paper on plural authorial voice in 1 Clement [so-called]). So back to a very ordinary Friday, whew.

Woke up this morning after a long night’s sleep (for me) and took the sensible step of walking my two miles (with intermittent jogs) before I returned home in time to bid Margaret farewell as she hurried to an early bus to get to her teaching at St Stephen’s House. Coffee, fruit, cleaning up, heading in to Morning Prayer (surprising Gwen, who had envisioned me in my bed of illness and suffering for a much longer interval), and (having discovered a problem before my shower) I arranged to deliver a power adapter and charging cable to Christ Church before a colleague ran out of battery power. Turned right around and came back to Abingdon, where I rested gently and awaited the return of the conquering heroic lecturer.

Margaret asked me how I felt, and it actually took me a second or two to realise that yesterday I had felt like death warmed over at this time. I was amazed to notice that, bruised left shoulder apart, I actually felt very fine, very fine indeed. Well done, vaccinations, and well done, immune system.

Spent most of the day lying down, sometimes dozing, feeling weak, hot spells, a couple spells of rigors, chills.

I slept poorly last night, as the swelling in my shoulders from my multi-vax day kicked in nastily, and — embarrassingly — I forgot that I had the cotton balls taped to my arms, so that not only was I lying on one or the other sore shoulder, but the cotton balls were intensifying the pressure on them. Rookie mistake, made as I advance to retirement. Under the circumstances, I opted not to try for a full-on run this morning, but made my two miles a walk-run, and that worked well. Coffee, fruit, shower, Morning Prayer, off right away to Fr Keith to bring him the sacrament, home for the day. My shoulder has ached grimly, and as the day went on I had chills for hours. I’m still 100% pro-vax, but at my advanced age I need some time to recuperate.

Yesterday I went to London for the twice-annual Fountain Pen Show there. If you’re at all afflicted by love for pens, or ink, and even a selection of paper, washi tape, notebooks, notebook covers, stationery in general, it’s an intoxicating experience. That’s just as well, because a degree of intoxication will help deal with the idea of paying for these goods; if you’re the type to be satisfied with the stock at W. H. Smith (oops, I mean T. G. Jones, /eyeroll) (Holy smoke, I didn’t know that W H Smith owns Cult Pens, the very popular and highly-regarded pen dealers!) or Ryman’s (no shade on stationery shops for normies), why pay £7 to shop for more expensive, higher-quality merchandise? But a little giddiness in the name of beauty goes a long way toward explaining paying an admission fee to gaze longingly at £350 fountain pens. I didn’t look at the pricier ones.

I went with the expectation that I might untie my pursestrings for a more modest pen, but realised when I was trying to choose that I have more fountain pens than a sensible person could ever use, even if their job description were ‘Use as many of these fountain pens as you can’. They are magnificent, most of them, and a number are gifts or legacies, for which I give heartfelt thanks; they include several of my favourites, beginning with my late father’s Montblanc Meisterstück. But at a certain point, the irrationality started ringing bells: why use savings to buy yet another model of a pen of which I already have several, even if it’s beautiful and sparks joy? That’s awfully close to a legal form of cocaine high, and I’m glad to not feel the drive to obtain coke, or pens, no matter the cost, just to fill a coke- or pen-shaped vacancy in my soul.

None of which should give offence to true collectors. I love you; if I were a few inches closer to the line, I know I would have crossed it. I have the fascination with arcane knowledge, the strong collector’s impulse, a love of order and completeness. I saw a Sheaffer Connoisseur for £120, a German school pen for £40, a white Cross pen (don’t have any Cross pens, and I have a soft spot for white pens) for only #10, almost bought one… but I didn’t. I think I’m a post-collector. If I ever think I really want to add a pen to my life, I’ll sort through the pens I’ve hunted down and trade in three or four — noe from the gifts-and-legacies category, I have principles — for one pen that I crave.

In the meantime, I’ll focus on fixing, polishing, and using the pens at hand. I might hire myself, after all, to use as many as I can, and I want to be able to point to my experience on my c.v.
(Will add photos of LPS tomorrow, and will post today’s sermon, and perhaps delete this promissory note.)

Back from the Pen Show yesterday, I got most of the way through this morning’s sermon for both St Michael’s and St Nic’s, but I have to bear down and work out the ending. This morning’s run was a full minute slower than my recent average, but that’s fine; I ran the two miles, it was colder than any morning since before summer, and I’m not in it for records. Coffee, fruit, in a while I’ll shower and then I’m off to church(es).

Good run this morning, with somewhat better breathing (not vigilantly deep, but a positive alternation between deep and shallow — progress toward more and deeper) and a good time. Coffee, fruit, cleaned up, restored the silver sacred vessels to St Helen’s (that were borrowed at St Michael’s last night) so that’s one worry off my mind, Morning Prayer, check messages (someone wants to hire the Parish Centre), and now public office hours at R&R. Sermon composition remains a desirable, but not (sadly) guaranteed to-do item.

This morning’s run felt much better than yesterday’s, with better breathing and no particular stiffness or wobbliness in legs, and a decent pace. When I looked at the time, then, I was surprised to learn that the time had been at the slow end of average (obviously ‘average’ will be drifting slower as this goes on). Further evidence that there is little relation between how a run feels and how fast I’m running.

Coffee, fruit, clean up, Morning Prayer, home, then back to church for a funeral, then home, then back to St Michael’s for Fr Paul’s last Mass before retiring. As I write in this week’s parish newsletter, ‘it can feel a little like the words of the prophet Elijah, who would have said (were he serving our parish), “I have been very zealous for the LORD, the God of hosts; but the Team Rector has retired, and the Team Vicar has retired, and the Associate Priest is on leave; and I, I alone, am left.”’ But that’s only till Jen is installed as Team Rector in twelve days, and it omits mention of our assisting clergy — stars! — who really keep all cylinders firing. Luckily, today is my notional day off from parish work, so I have lots of time.