Avoiding The Sword

The KHT's summer term drew to an end on Wednesday.
Our original plan was that we would go down to Cornwall for a few days ringing, before returning to our tin tent, which is on a site in Devon for the summer.  It was a lovely idea, especially as the ringing itinerary included towers I had always wanted to ring at, including Hugh Town on the Isles of Scilly.
In reality, the timing just didn't quite fit with the end of the KHT's term, and would have required far too much driving, in too short a time.
Then, as the rest of the world has not yet broken up for summer, meetings were scheduled.
In the end, we decided that we would go to the caravan, but just for a long weekend.

"Let's go early in the morning" said I
"How early?"
"When we are ready!"
This insignificant exchange sums up a basic difference between us. DH likes to have an idea what time we are leaving, so he can plan accordingly. I hate having a self-imposed deadline, as I always feel that it is hanging over me like the Sword of Damocles. Why start the day with a feeling of impending doom and failure? It just does not make sense to me.

Bags were assembled in the hall. As fast as DH took luggage out to the car, more appeared. DH would have preferred to have all the bags assembled in the hall BEFORE he started packing the car, but hey, I was the one packing and the day before was a tad manic!
The car was duly packed.
"Are you sure we have everything? The car seems almost empty..."
It was true, the back seat is normally buried under a sea of holiday paraphanalia and it was clearly visible and surprisingly bare."It is only three nights, Honey, not a fortnight. If we have forgotten anything we will cope, we always do!"

Roughly on schedule, we departed. A mini miracle.
Unfortunately, by the time we reached Michaelwood a comfort break was required, but we didn't stop for coffee.... Oh no! We were travellers on a mission and were not going to delay for such frivolous and time wasting purposes...
We arrived at the site at 11:15am, which was good progress. Coffee time. I reached for the jar of coffee. It was a dried out sticky mess in the bottom of the jar :(  I then realised that I had forgotten to pack the small container of coffee that we take out in the lunch bag!  Argh!!!
We unpacked the car quickly, and headed off to have a picnic lunch on a nearby beach. Stopping at a conveniently positioned Co-op on the way, to purchase an essential jar of coffee.

Usually, we pick our spot on the beach to give us shelter from the prevailing wind. Today we picked our spot to give us the advantage of the breeze, and then moved steadily back up the beach as the tide came in. The sea was as warm as I remember it being.   We put up the brolly to give us some welcome shade and applied liberal coatings of suncream to avoid the embarrassing red glow of sunburn.

It wasn't only people who were feeling the heat. A horse was brought down on to the beach to cool down in the sea. The rider was followed by an assistant with a horse poo sized pooper scooper. This added a black horse to the white horses, which were rolling up the English Channel.
I looked around to see if they were filming an advert for Lloyds Bank, but there was no sight of any film crew.






Around 5pm we decided to pack up. The car park was full of people wanting to take advantage of the warm summer's evening and there were plenty of BBQ's gently sending smoke signals of celebration into the still warm air.
A lovely summers evening in a quiet corner of the West Country.  Perhaps we will stay for a week after all...

"Couchie-Couchie-Coo" to the Rescue!

8:40am and we are having a quick run through of this week's story
"Couchie-couchie-Coo" intones a member of the team.
"That just has to be the best line ever!" I declare, encouragingly, and get a well-deserved look that says 'stop-taking-the-Michael' far more eloquently than words could ever.

We conclude our preparations, the props get the final move into position, to ensure that it is clear which scene of the story we are enacting, and the pupils file in for assembly. Two members of the team pick some helpers and they are briefed as to how they are to take part.

Six eager volunteers are looking up at me and I have no idea what is happening in their lives.
I have about two minutes to bring them up to speed, so no time to beat about the bush.
"OK girls, I am afraid you are mothers whose babies are going to be killed."
Six pairs of eyes are suddenly all directed at me, with a look of disbelief.
..."But it is OK, they are not real babies, just a piece of cloth!"
They look rather relieved at this 'good news'.
"When the soldiers come, I want you three to drop your 'babies', throw your hands in the air and scream, and I want you three to drop your 'babies' and run away."
We have a quick practice, and the three who run away, do so with great enthusiasm

Meanwhile, the soldiers, under the guidance of a member of our team, are looking forward to some serious swordwork. I break the news that all they need to do is wave their swords and growl. No disemboweling of towels will be required, thank you very much!

So we begin the story.
Moses' Mum duly prepares the basket,
lines it with pitch,
and places it on the blue material that represents the river.
Meanwhile, I am hiding behind the bullrushes, ready to leap up and volunteer the services of a wetnurse.

Faced with an ambush of sword-brandishing Year Threes, three of the mothers drop their babies, but forget to scream, the other three run down the central aisle.
Right on cue, the princess spots the Tesco's best silver-grey wash basket, and, as planned, Moses is successfully rescued.
The princess utters her line with panache
"Couchie-couchie-coo!"  and repeats it for good measure.
"Couchie-couchie-coo!"
Reception and Year 1 laugh.
The Princess gets into her stride
"Couchie-couchie-Couchie-couchie-Coo!" 
The other children laugh.
The adults are caught up in the awfulness of the story, and try and shush the children.

I think of the children in our world today, who are refugees, whose lives are at risk.
Whilst I am sad for them, I am relieved that the children can see humour in this story and are not traumatised by the brutality. There is a balance between the way we present the story without compromising the truth, and avoiding anything that is not to our taste.
When they are older, I hope they will think about the vulnerability of refugees, but for now, I am grateful that they can laugh at the ridiculousness of a "Couchie-couchie-Coo!"

Cooking Up A Storm with Daffodil

A kitchen is a dangerous place where innocent ingredients are transformed into dishes, with varying degrees of success, according to the skill of the chef.

But no-one ever askes the courgette if it wishes to be diced and added to a Bolognese. It is perfectly aware that it is not included for its nutritional value, but just to bump up the vegetable content percentage, whilst avoiding offending anyone. In time, it will reduce to mush, and can be consumed without inflicting trauma on anyone.

You may fool yourself if you wish when it comes to the shallot, but it knows perfectly well that it is merely a substitute for an onion - which is what most authentic recipes would recommend.
The shallot is that friend,
who will never speak the truth too harshly.
Always managing to dredge up words of reassurance and comfort,
no matter how badly you have messed up,
and speak the truth with words that somehow make them palatable and acceptable.
The shallot knows it is only included to spare your personal sensitivities,
and has vowed not to get carried away,
seeing the opportunity as a good career move....

The onion may be recommended,
but has a strident nature,
coupled with a temperment that manages to be both invasive and pervasive.
Yes, the onion is perfectly capable of bringing painful tears to the eyes, at even the smallest encounter. Some swear by drowning the blessed things to keep them subdued, but that is a little harsh.

Meat! Ah, do not forget the mince. Add before the tomatoes, to provide the opportunity for it to get browned off. Let's face it, including someone who is browned off, speeds up a project no end, as for them the conclusion cannot come quickly enough. They long for the moment when they can move on, without losing face. Strain off the juices, to eliminate excess fat

The tomato - needs to be released from its confinement - and you need the correct tools for that!  Amazingly versitile, it adds colour to any situation - intentionally or otherwise.  The biggest miracle of all, is that it somehow manages to add taste, despite being cheap.
Now there is a paradox to ponder upon...

Gosh, I hope this lot don't fall out with each other - or me! Or it could all get rather messy!

Mayonannaise-infested Minefield!

Monday was sweltering, and proved to be the hottest day of the year so far! With high temperatures forecast, we decided not to venture out exploring the countryside and opted to go shopping instead.  For me, the exciting task of replacing aging underwear, was on the agenda. Following the closure of our M & S at Easter we headed over to a town that still has a store.

Initially, we spent some time wandering around John Lewis, before venturing onwards to other nearby shops.
The KHT had the shock of her life in Fat Face, when she discovered just how much a pair of parrot patterned lightweight trousers were going to set her back. Previous purchases have been from more modestly priced establishments. Fat Face certainly likes to charge more for the privilege of shopping in the bare floorboarded ambiance of its stores.
In TKMaxx we discovered a t-shirt to match the previously purchased parrotty trousers.
Then we moved on M&S and moved down a gear to bras... I knew what size I required but the KHT needed to try hers on. I would love to know why anyone thought it was a good idea, to have the changing rooms at the opposite end of the shop to ladies undergarments...

For old times sake we decided to have lunch in the cafe at M&S. The KHT happily ordered Scrambled Eggs on Toast.
I couldn't face another toastie.
For a change I decided to have a fish finger sandwich, but without the coleslaw - as I don't like anything that wobbles, including all mayo-type products.
What could possibly go wrong?
I was soon to discover, as my fishfinger sandwich arrived with coleslaw.
Apologetically, I informed the member of staff that I had specifically requested no coleslaw.
She apologised, took my lunch away, and brought it back on a fresh plate, minus the coleslaw....
Hurrray! 
However, I was soon to discover that I was celebrating prematurely, as my sandwich was made with salad cream, or mayo....
Arghhh! THAT was NOT mentioned on the sign.
Don't you just love it when they decided to add extra ingredients, without telling you that they are going to?
Nope, me neither.
I could tell you that I ate every scrap, but that would be a lie, so I won't!
I just did my best to negotiate the mayonnaise-infested minefield.

Now, if you don't like coleslaw, the chances are that you will not like salad cream or mayo either, but how do you know that such abominations are about to be inflicted upon you? After all, no-one really wants to interrogate the staff at the order point.
I have this problem when ordering Baked Potatoes.
Firstly are they oven cooked, or nuked in a microwave?
Will it be served with coleslaw? If so, please give my portion to someone else!
Even if it is scraped off my plate, a significant area of contamination will inevitably remain.

In many National Trust cafe's, Baked Potatoes are served with dry, green stalk they call 'salad' which is usually accompanied by coleslaw. Recently, when I remembered to ask for 'no coleslaw', I was served tomatoes with my 'salad', which made it far more palatable.

Back to the day... For part two of our shopping expedition, we moved on to a nearby gardening centre, to purchase some long-handled edging shears. We parked at almost the fartherst end of the car park, so that we could take advantage of the shade of a tree.
As I have a loyalty card we decided to avail ourselves of a free drink, as we were there, to help prevent dehydration.
We purchased additional food supplies for the local bird and squirrel population, plus a replacement feeder to hopefully to slow down the speed at which some of the items are consumed.

In the evening it was the local cross-boundary ringing cluster muster, which gave us the rare opportunity to ring on ten bells. As we drove back into town we admired the England flags, which a couple of community-minded football fans, have hung at various vantage points around the town. Sadly, some have already been stolen.
Fortunately, many still remain.
Let us hope that England follow suit, and don't get kicked out at the next stage!
Time will tell.

Narrow Way

Saturday was our bellringers quarterly meeting, which was held in a small village tucked away under the edge of Bredon Hill, down in the south of the county - near where the Cotswolds meet the River Avon.

We set the satnav to the postcode of the hall and off we went. We found the village, no problem, but we could not find the village hall! As we drove along a particularly narrow lane, we encountered a gentleman, who was enjoying a quiet stroll. In desperation, we stopped and asked where we might find our destination.  He scratched his head, thought deeply and then scratched his head some more.
"Well, you must have driven past it to get here!" was his final verdict, "Follow the road round, and its on the right just before you get to the top of the big hill." 
We followed his instructions, eyes peering past every shrub and tree, in our desire to locate our elusive venue.
This time we spotted the cars in the car park. We had not noticed it at the first time of passing, as the hall adjoins a house.
At one time the village hall had been the village school.
In the main room, there is a poignant memorial to the pupils who went off to fight in the First World War, and did not return.

Following a brief business meeting, we moved on to our Annual Striking Competition, which. by coincidence was being held at the same time as the National Twelve-bell Striking Competition in Cambridge , where the elite of the ringing world would be attempting to wrestle the crown from  the regular winners - Birmingham.

Last year Inkberrow did the double in our own local six bell competition winning both the method and call change shields. Sadly, Inkberrow were one of the many towers who failed to raise a band to defend their titles.
Unfortunately, June is a time when lots of exciting and interesting events happen.
What could be MORE exciting than a bellringing competition? Unsurprisingly lots of things! The organizers like a summer date so that we can sit outside and enjoy the sunshine while the ringing takes place. One of the other branches hold their competition in winter, and had to cancel due to snow - so you really can't win!

Three members of our tower were present, so we got roped in to form a scratch band to make up the numbers.
We made our way along a narrow footpath,
that felt like it was excavated from the inside of a hedge,
to the churchyard.
Fortunately, we had a member of the home tower to give us some tips!
Unfortunately, a member of the team went home before anyone told him he was supposed to be ringing with us.
Fortunately, we snaffled a replacement from a call-change band.
Unfortunately, as we weren't used to ringing together we had different ideas about what speed we should ring.






The access up to the ringing chamber is steep and narrow. It begins with a spiral with very shallow stairs, before you climb a straight steep narrow staircase. When I say narrow I mean less-than-shoulder-width narrow! Someone declared the access to be worse than Pershore Abbey. It is possibly more awkward, but a lot less scary!!!

At the allotted time we prepared to clamber up the tower.
"Ring a practice piece of around 4 minutes" we were advised.
We rang our practice piece. Then we realised that we didn't know how long we were supposed to ring for our test piece. We hadn't intended ringing so had not looked at the rules
"I will call down and ask." I decided, wondering how on earth they would hear me, but relying on the fact that if nothing happened someone would investigate.
I opened the tower to the staircase and called out
"Hello...?" 
No response.
I went down a few steps and tried again, a little louder this time.
"HELLO!"
This time I got a response
"Is everything OK?
"How many changes do we ring?"
"120"
"Cheers!"

Then we couldn't remember if it was one or two whole pulls on the treble, so we did one, followed by another, just in case!

We rang our test piece, which actually wasn't as good as the practice.
After all the bands had rung, we returned down a narrow footpath to the village hall to hear the judge pass his verdicts

Needless to say, the pieces of ringing I heard from national competition in Cambridge were far better than any of our ringing! Birmingham won the National competition, again, with Eckington and Pershore winning the shields in our local competition. I think our local ringers understand sharing better than the Brummies!

Going Underground...

With all this hot weather DH has taken every opportunity to get to his allotments and continue the onslaught upon five-foot high vegetation. DH does seem to be enjoying the Herculean task of restoring order from chaos and provides regular and comprehensive progress reports, in which weed removal is measured by the dustbin full...

We had considered going out for the day as the KHT was off college, but I knew DH would rather be wrestling with his weeds, so the KHT and I decided to go and indulge in some retail therapy.
When she was younger the KHT was overwhelmed by both choice and change and hated shopping. Now she is older, she really enjoys looking at what is on offer and making a few small purchases.

Last week the KHT bought some new brown shorts, but I noticed that she was wearing an older pair, and I tried to discover if it was the style or the material that swung it.
"You seem to prefer those shorts to your new ones. Do they feel comfier?" I enquired.
"It is the colour that matters!" she announced decisively.
I was somewhat taken aback by this response and could only utter a bewildered "Why?"
She regarded me with a somewhat disappointed expression
"Well, green IS good for the environment!" she pronounced.
Who could possibly argue with that logic?

DH dropped us off in town, but he had to take us back home first, as I had left my phone on charge...
Once we were safely in town, DH was free to dispose of grass cuttings at the tip, and unwanted clothing and shoes to the local charity shop, before heading off to his allotments.

In Superdrug, the KHT purchased a see through toiletries bag, with smaller similar see-through bags within, which she declared would be perfect for her beloved toiletries. In the process, she gained yet another loyalty card - that will give The Body Shop another customer to fight over.
To her disgust, we didn't go into The Body Shop today, as I have banned all perfumed toiletries until her wounds have healed.  She got a bit carried away at her sports club the previous week and decided to do circus tricks with some weighted throwing equipment. In so doing she managed to give herself sizeable rope burns on the insides of BOTH elbows. After a week of experimenting with various creams, I sought advice from a local pharmacist who recomended Sudocrem. Fortunately, she doesn't associate this product with nappy rash...

We then visited various cafes trying to decide which one would get our custom.
Patisserie Valerie - plenty of cakes, not a lot else.
Debenhams - no lasagne.
Coffee One - scary looking sandwiches
"Shall we go back to Debenhams? They may not have had lasagne but at least their sandwiches looked more tempting."
"Costa!" suggested the KHT, emphatically.
I thought of the air con.
I thought of the sweltering heat of Debenhams restaurant with its large south facing windows.
It was a glorious June day, so the air con won.

At Costa, we made our selection and sat down to enjoy our lunch.
The novelty of the air con soon wore off.
I put on my cardi.
The KHT had spurned the suggestion of such a garment.
"It IS June!" is her regular disdainful refrain.

In Costa, cutlery is not readily available. Perhaps you have to request it using a secret password. My toastie was nice enough, but they place one half on top of the other. By the time I had waited for my coffee and sat down to eat, I discovered that both halves were welded together. Well, it did contain cheese. I prised them apart and started to eat my lunch.
Fortunately, there was a serviette to wipe my fingers on.
Unfortunately, when I put the serviette back down on the table, the air con blasted it away.
Blasted air con!
I took a tissue from a pack in my bag, and tucked into the cuff of my sleeve to stop it suffering the same fate as the serviette. Meanwhile, the cardi-less KHT resembled a hairy hedgehog, as the icy blast from the aircon made every single hair on her arms, stand on end.

After lunch we visted the KHT's favourite shops -  Waterstones, followed by TKMaxx, Computer Exchange, Wilkinsons, WHSmiths.
Unusually she opted to walk home, instead off traveling by bus. I should have known there was a catch...

We visited Pokestops on Church Green  and were headed home, or so I thought...
"Let's go this way.." the KHT announced,
 and led me off in the direction of the college,
then under a large roundabout,
down a road - a long road,
and finally to an underpass that she has seen on Streetview or Google or something.

 On the positive side, it did have interesting artwork produced with the help of one of the local schools.















By now we are further from home than when we were in town,
the sun is beating down mercilessly,
and we still have some way to walk.
"Is it just me or is this the hottest day of the year?" asked the KHT, as she wilted.
Perhaps remembering the painting of the lake that she had pretended to dive into!




We managed to clock up over 12000 steps and that was just walking around town and the great trek home.
"Still, at least we managed to find FOUR underpasses!" she said, satisfied with her endeavours.
"Couldn't you have chosen a cooler day?" I responded plaintively.

The town probably has as many underpasses as roundabouts. I fear that there will be more to explore as the KHT discovers her inner geek.
There could be a calendar in this, or a new Monopoly set...

Consider the Hollyhocks

Consider the hollyhocks that lurk outside my kitchen window, like lanky juveniles. Inarticulate. In the way. Impossible to ignore.

Consider the hollyhocks. Seeds acquired, not from the sale of a cow, but from a plant we happened upon, as we journeyed.
The good news is that they were free.
The bad news is that we cannot clamber up them to some mythical kingdom in the sky, where hens lay golden eggs and grumpy giants roam. That sort of thing only happens in fairy tales, or so Jack told me...

Consider the hollyhocks - their pairing reminiscent of sentries.  Biological bookends. Buds tightly closed, as they alone know the colour of their blooms, while we watch on with expectancy.
We can not rush them or dictate the day of their flowering, for they will open in the own time. All we can do is watch on, and speculate.

Consider the hollyhocks. These twin towers of vegetation are now tall enough to peer in our window. If I were of fanciful disposition, I might imagine that they are self-appointed observers of our human infrastructure and interaction. Yet they have no understanding of the implications of our deliberations even those concerning man's inhumanity to humanity. However, if they looked carefully around the immediate environment, they would have noted plants within cages, but these are to support and enable, not restrict. Meanwhile, we glimpse through windows into other worlds, and think we have grasped the essence, but can an outsider ever really see more than those within chose to reveal?

Consider the hollyhocks. Their needs are simple.
Light - essential! The sunnier and drier the better - within reason.
A place and space to grow - despite their height they can appear through a crack in the pavement. Poor soil does not faze them, they love a challenge!
Water - some is required, not a lot. Remember they thrive in dry places, but not desert conditions

Consider the hollyhocks. Do they wonder where humans have their roots, for must have noticed that we are not the same? Humans move around, sometimes with purpose and at other times resembling tumbleweed, seemingly at the mercy of external forces.

Consider the hollyhocks. How seriously do they take mission? Are they keen to grow new hollyhocks, or are they only interested in their own growth?

Consider the hollyhocks? Of course I will! I think they are blooming marvellous!

Zippy

Ooops!

A couple of days ago misfortune struck, and one of the zipper tags parted company from the bag.

It wasn't a tragedy - for such words should be reserved for major disasters, not consequences of natural wear and tear. The tag came off because the stitching preventing the tag from escaping, failed.

I had an unsuccessful attempt at putting the tag back, but as you can see it would only have been useful if you were actually inside the bag...!
I am not terribly practical.


Needless to say, as I did not take the time to repair the stitching, the tag soon came off again.

Now a zip tag may not seem to be a very important item, but without it, I could not close the receptacle completely, in case the other tag also fell off. Walking around with an unsecured bag was not a good idea, so I suggested to DH that it might be possible to repair the bag by gluing the section where the stitching had failed.
He gave me a look - an 'are you really out of your tree' kind of look, and announced that sewing was the only possible procedure that would produce an effective repair.  Then he sighed, and went and got a curved needle.  Then came the dreaded words
"You will have to empty the bag!"
The part of me that doesn't like emptying bags couldn't see why this was required, as there was room to fit his hand inside the mysterious depths, What more could he want?
Realising that repairs were on hold until the bag was empty, I went and got another bag, and emptied my bag into it.
DH stared in amazement
as parts of pens,
packs of tissues,
partly used strips of paracetamol,
receipts,
leaflets,
scraps of paper,
several sachets of sugar,
two power banks,
a lead,
keys,
the odd coin or two,
a chunky blue wax crayon,
a black sharpie - perfect for making last-minute signs for Open the Book,
a pair of scissors with green handles - Messy Church
a candle,
sweet wrappers
and other junk cascaded sullenly out of my beloved blue bag and into the see-through plastic bag.
"Good heavens! What HAVE you got in there!?"
"It IS a bag!" I replied - stating the blindingly obvious, just in case it wasn't.

"Choose a thread!" DH instructed with authority, as he got into 'repair mode'.
Fearful of what selection he might make I hurriedly selected a suitable smokey grey thread.
Bemused by the speed of my selection he regarded the proffered spool of thread dubiously, wanting to dispute my choice, but resisting the urge - knowing too well that a colour blind person questioning a choice of colour, has lost the argument before it has begun.

A few quick stitches and the bag was as good as new, with the tags facing the correct way.
Using the parts of pens I managed to successfully rebuild three biros, two of which work. The receipts will be shredded, the bits of paper recycled, and rubbish disposed of. Meanwhile, if anyone wants to know what we did on the Reader Weekend in 2017 I have a copy of the programme...

Money! Money! Money!

I am also £5.11 richer.
Actually, my wealth is the same,
I just know where to find it!

Suburban Solution

Fave flower - not from an oak

After days of warm and mainly dry weather the water butts were nearly empty, so we finally got round to using the one behind the shed.
To our surprise, the water from this butt foamed, was not totally clear and had a less than fragrant aroma. I showed a frothy can full to DH.
"Do you think an acorn could have dropped down the downpipe, and fermented in the warm weather?" I suggested.
DH didn't think this was likely. Armed with a torch he bravely lifted the lid and peered in. Well, I think he was brave. There might have been an alien from out of space in there, or a swamp monster...or anything that is unpleasant, like a self-serving politician or bank overdraft. Instead, there was a nearly full water butt, with a green film covering the surface.  The decision was taken to empty the container, but the contents were not going to go to waste.
"Ah well, I can give a generous soaking to the plants at the end of the garden, where the rain does not get." I decided.

Foxglove under the mighty oakes

So an exciting evening was spent watering the garden, can by can. Actually can can by can can, as I use two in tandem - one slowly filling, whilst the largess from the other is distributed upon the rain-starved vegetation. DH then cleaned out the water butt and reconnected it.

Meanwhile, we think that the green film is nothing more sinister than the sap from overhanging trees being washed off the shed roof and into the water butt. We plan to use this water first thus depriving it of the opportunity to stagnate and ferment.
This mundane solution must be disappointing, for those who hankered after a more dramatic explanation, but this is suburbia.

If the tale was set in a more rural setting, it could have featured septic tanks, but this is suburbia.
If the setting was urban, it would probably involve some element with serious street cred, but this is suburbia - where we live, our lives overshadowed by our love-hate relationship with the nearby oaks - loving the wildlife they bring to our doorstep, and hating the shade they throw at us.

This is suburbia.

Inside or Out?

The KHT had an appointment that required dropping her off at 1pm and collecting her at 4pm.
"What are we going to do?" asked DH
"We will find somewhere to go and have lunch," I replied, "I don't want my lunch at 11:30!"
"I thought you might say that" responded DH.

The KHT was duly dropped off at the appointed time, with wellies, waterproof, drink, cash and probably loads of other things she did not require. We set the satnav and made our way down narrow country lanes to a farm shop, which had good reviews online, and where I thought we could have lunch.
The only complication being DH's allergies. Apparently, he isn't gluten intolerant, but we don't know what the issue is. Following a gluten-free diet seems to keep him clear of most irritations, but he also seems to react badly to pepper. Having removed salt from most foods on health grounds, adding pepper to a dish seems to be the cheapest and most common way of enhancing the flavour.

The farm shop is based on an old barn. The disabled toilet is in a portacabin on the right-hand side of the building.
Fortunately, the previous occupant had helpfully left the door wide open, to let the next person know that it was vacant.
Unfortunately, this meant that the first thing you saw as you approached the premises, was a white porcelain pan... I am not convinced that this was the image the owners wanted you to have imprinted on your brain.

We could see that the cafe was at the right-hand end, as we could see tables beyond the glass door, which also bore a sign that said 'No entry'.
The next door was ajar, so we walked in, and then noticed the smaller sign on the door that also said 'No entry'. It was too late, we were in.
I enquired what gluten-free items were on offer. The lady thought and suggested "Jacket Potato!".
Sorted.

There were quite a few tables inside, but as it was so hot, we decided to eat outdoors. The sun immediately went in, the temperature plummeted and the wind got up. I regretted leaving my cardi in the car. The food was most excellent - one of the nicest jacket potatoes I have had in a long time. The salad included tomatoes and cooked courgettes, and didn't include coleslaw! Phew! Another positive was that they knew what a Flat White was...

Despite the disabled toilet being so prominently positioned, the Ladies was discretely tucked away slightly to one side, so you didn't feel that you were in full view of the car park. Although technically outside toilets, they were clean and well kept and not too draughty!

After lunch, we headed south, along narrow lanes, and by chance found a parking space close to the Avon, so we went for a pleasant walk along the river bank, admiring the boats as they passed by.

With less than an hour until collection was required, we headed south to the next bridge over the river and headed back north to collect a happy, but weary and peopled out, KHT.
As we drove off she enquired
"Has Dad got his 'idiot magnet' on?" 
Somedays when DH is driving he seems to find a succession of drivers who are behaving in unorthodox ways, so we call this his 'idiot magnet'.
Fortunately, we didn't encounter any bonkers drivers worthy of this epithet.
Tomorrow may be different...

Completion?

Nine months after we first gathered at a church in the Black Country, we came together again in the same place for the conclusion of the Mission Shaped Ministry Course - run by the Anglican & Methodist churches.

The course has included monthly weekday evenings, several Saturdays and a residential weekend. 

We have looked at many areas of mission, seen clips of amazing work, listened to inspirational speakers, and thought quite a bit about what we have done and what we think God is asking us to do.

In the first week, we watched a short film about A man who planted trees. Whilst it is important to remember that this story is allegorical, it was a timely reminder that we may not see results for some time, if ever. However, that doesn't mean that our work is not important. What matters is that God has called and we have responded.

Nine months ago we were a collection of small groups and individuals, who gathered together for a common purpose, but we remained as small groups within the collective assembly. It was not until we adopted the Biblical principles of gathering and eating together at the residential weekend, that the barriers began to be dismantled and we started to see each other as individuals, as we began to get to know each.

Now we have completed the course and a move on to the next phase. 

Just before the end of the session, we were all given beautiful cards from Lindisfarne Scriptorium, which bore the familiar words "Send us out in the power of your spirit to live and work to your praise and glory". These cards were not ours to keep. Instead, we were invited to write a blessing which would hopefully be given to another member of the course. The cards were gathered in and then, as we left, we had the opportunity to take one. The risk was that you could get your own card back! I didn't and I did feel blessed by the words inscribed inside the card that I received.

Later, as I looked more closely at the artwork on the front of the card, I began to appreciate the complexity of the illustration and the skill of the artist -  the feet on the road with flowers along the edge, buildings, stars, the fire of Pentecost, water, trees, sheep - in a kaleidoscope of colour. Different aspects of God's universe, in extravagant, intricate detail, despite being barely discernable to the naked eye.

The journey is over. Let the journey begin!

Whiter Shade of Pale

This is the third year since we moved into our house and the garden is slowly maturing.
Mature oaks stand guard, just beyond the southern boundary, shielding much of the garden from direct sunlight.


The obelisk, which we purchased a couple of years, no longer looks dumped at the bottom of the garden, as the planting is maturing. The white metalwork echoes the colour of the flowers surrounding it.

Wild rose grows prolifically in the local hedgerows, and we have encouraged it to grow within our garden as a deterrent - who wants to tangle unnecessarily with a rampant briar rose?









Now spring has passed, the mounds of small white flowers on the woodruff have faded away.

We have watched with delight as the foxgloves planted at the end of last year, and the beginning of this year, have matured.
In the evenings their campaniles of silent bells glow, as the setting sun sneaks under the heavy branches of the oak to illuminate their presence.

Soon their moment of glory will pass and the Japanese Anemones will take their place.

Last night I replaced the candles in the bottle lanterns. They really could do with a good clean to remove the film of sap and debris which has accumulated over the winter.

During the autumn and winter many acorns have fallen from the oak trees, only one managed to fall through the neck of a bottle...

As darkness fell, I lit the candles, and then waited until the last one had exhausted its supply of wax, before I went to bed.



On the other fence, the solar-powered lights bringing light to the darkness in gentle swathes.
It is fun to wait until it is dark, and then take a photo whilst deliberately moving the camera.







There are flowers in the garden of every hue - pale pinks, brilliant blues, mellow yellows, outrageous oranges, rampant reds, proud purples and burgeois burgundies. But under the canopy of trees at the end of the garden, it is the lightest coloured flowers that dominate, with their whiter shades of pale.

Carrots or Avocados?

I popped into a supermarket on Tuesday for some avocadoes, I mean carrots.
No, I really did want carrots -  unlike the self-service till shoppers who press the button for carrots, when they are actually buying more expensive items, such as avocados.
The problem is so widespread, that some supermarkets have sold more carrots than they have ever had in stock!

Morrisons, where DH does our regular food shop, has not had any of my favourite Chantenay Carrots for the past few weeks. I had also run out of  Black Cherry jam which Morrisons doesn't sell either. It seemed logical to pop into a rival supermarket on my way home from work, to make these, and a few other purchases.
What could possibly go wrong...?

There I was zipping around the store on my own mini version of 'Supermarket Sweep. Before I knew it my basket was full. I am good at impulse buys!
Having paid for my purchases I planned to put most of the shopping in my folding bag. However, it already contained my coat and water bottle. I shoved the shopping in as best I could, not wanting to cause a delay at the till - even though there was no-one behind me.
After taking a few steps I decided that I was unlikely to make it home without losing some of my purchases, so I decided to repack the shopping, whilst balancing the bag on a windowsill at the front of the store.
Wiser persons than I can guess what happened next. Inevitably one of the items slipped out of the bag and landed on the floor with a resounding crash. It just had to be a jar of Black Cherry Jam.  I picked it up, expecting to find that it had sustained a mortal injury, but the only thing that seemed to have suffered was the lid - which was now sporting a dent worthy of giving it 'street vibe'. It was destined to be opened within the next 24 hours, so I popped it back in the bag from whence it had escaped, and made a mental note to give it a closer inspection when I returned home.

As I neared the house I realised that the key I required was underneath all the shopping. Never let me plan something important, like a war...

After lunch, I decided to dig a new border out of the lawn, along the side of the summer house. I got out the fork and spade and tested the ground. The ground was not keen on this idea. I did a circuit of the garden - that took about 30 seconds. Was I going to give up on this plan, or succeed? I changed out of my purple slip-on plastic shoes - suitable for retrieving laundry, and moved up a notch to 'gardening trainers'. I started digging with the fork. The first clod came up without to much difficulty, and it was quite easy to shake the soil from the roots. Before I knew it I was making good progress. I must remember this determination thing - it is very effective!
It was warm. Digging is hard work. I wanted to rest, but I also wanted to finish before the washing machine beeped at me.

I kept going.

In the back corner, the ground has been compressed, as this provides the access to the storage area to the rear of the summer house. I didn't bother digging that part, on the basis that it will probably have a slab on it.

Now the digging is complete, I can see that it is actually the best soil in the garden! Not difficult, as most of the rest is heavy clay!

Now all I have to do is decide what to plant in my new border - Carrots or avocados!

Five out of Eight ain't Bad

On Monday morning we headed over to Packwood House. As we had less time than usual we took the opportunity to visit a National Trust property near to home.
Before we left I had been rushing around doing housework. I really didn't realise how warm it was until we got there! #shouldhavetakenahat

We started in the kitchen gardens. where I was very taken with the scarecrow. I think DH should have one on his allotment - as long as it doesn't look too much like me!



Here they grew strawberries in pots suspended in a frame - a set up I have not seen before.




We crossed the road towards the house, passing a particularly fragrant floribunda rose, with an aroma that caused passersby to pause, and breath in the floral fragrance - unless of course, they were sensitive to such scents, in which case they moved on swiftly and avoided lingering within the aroma zone.

In the gardens, the sprinklers were in action, trying to keep the gardens looking fresh.
I was tempted to step through the cascade of water droplets, but I resisted.
#shouldhavegotwet









We followed the path around the lake, pausing to ponder in the art installation 'Prospect Room'. From the outside, it looked like a tatty shed, but inside the view through the walls was interesting - which I assume was the whole point of the project.
#shouldhaveseentheview














We did a quick tour of the Yew Garden, aka The Sermon on the Mount', which this iconic collection of ancient trees was laid out to represent. The KHT climbed the spiral path up to the highest point, pausing to wave enthusuastically from the foot of 'Jesus'.

We then beat a hasty retreat to the cafe before dehydration set in!
#shouldhavetakenadrink












In the evening I met up with part of the group in whose company I spent my Thursday evenings for a couple of very interesting, challenging and enjoyable years. It was a long overdue opportunity to catch up with all their news. We plan to meet up once a term. I missed the last gathering - and that was nearly a year ago.  We start off with good intentions, and then they slip...

The eight of us went through Reader Training together followed by Funeral Training. Our backgrounds and personalities are very different, but we bonded well as a group, and probably had a lot more fun than the course tutors intended...
#shouldhavebeenmoreserious

Sadly not everyone was able to be there and we missed those who could not make it. Five out of eight ain't bad, but eight out of eight would have been even better!
#swishyouhadbeenthere

Counting Crosses

DH is churchwarden, for the third time!
Some people never seem to learn ;)

Agreeing to be nominated is the start of the process of becoming church warden.
You then have to be elected at the AGM.
Finally, you are required to roll up to a large service
and agree to practice true religion,
promote unity and peace,
look after the buildings and chattels of the church
and, when your stint is complete,
pass everything on to your successor.

The ministry dates back to the 13th century, and although many Churchwardens are mature in years, none are thought to be that old.
Actually, when I looked around at those gathered, many are retired, but there were an encouraging number who were relatively young.

Churchwarden charging churchwards

The service we attended was held at St. John's, Bromsgrove. A large church situated on the highest land in the immediate area. Not surprisingly the lofty spire dominates the skyline of both the town and surrounds.

There is very little room for cars in the grounds of the church, and the small number of places that were available were probably reserved for the great and the good, and those less mobile.
However, this was not a problem, as there is plenty of  street parking close to the church and we had no difficulty in finding a space.

One bemused resident looked with puzzlement at the cars lining the normally empty streets.
"There must be something on at the church" 
he pronounced, before realising that he had spoken loud enough for those parking their cars to hear!

I have probably only attended about five services at this church and several of these were many years ago.

St. John's is dominated by a large cross that hangs near the front of the nave.  I would love to know what it is made of
The KHT, however, was fascinated by the backlit cross in the alcove on the left hand side of the main arch.
We then started counting crosses,
those on the altar,
the ones incorporated in the east window,
the crucifixion window,
the small brightly coloured glass cross.
A large piece of art hung above the north aisle, incorporating various Christian symbols,
including a cross.
Would any other method of brutal torture and murder,
lend itself so readily to being incorporated into so many art forms?



There was a goodly number gathered for this annual service and there will be at least one more in the Diocese. Churchwardens are expected to attend, or make alternative arrangements to be admitted to office.

Afterwards, there were lots of familiar faces to catch up with and refreshments to enjoy.

The KHT was worried that she would get a hangover as the water she consumed was in a wine glass.
"The miracle in Canaan was a one-off." I reassured her, 
"I have not heard of another occasion when it happened."

"What about the Archdeacon's Charge?" you ask.
Well, there is a high price to pay - services to attend,
meetings to sit through,
forms to fill in,
returns to make,
faculties to apply for,
and hopefully, books to balance.
Someone has to do it, or ensure it is done,
and that is what churchwardens sign up for - knowingly, or otherwise!

The price may feel high in terms of time and commitment, but it is nothing compared to sacrifice given by the one, in whose honour the crosses are displayed.

Green

Tuesday - time to disengage myself from the monotony of the apparently never-ending laundry cycle, and do something useful - i.e. return to work!

I walked home afterwards to clock up some km towards 'hatching eggs' in Pokemon Go - sad I know, but it does encourage me to walk!

The exponential explosion in vegetation growth has not been restricted to our garden. This is one of the major footpaths and, as you can see, the branches are reaching out to shake hands with their neighbours across the aisle, like Anglicans shaking hands with those in the adjacent pew.
It is not a wood, I told myself, it is a living cathedral!

As I walked through the woodland, I was startled by a sudden noise, as some small animal or bird made a hasty departure.
I turned to try and identify what it was, but it was gone. All that betrayed the rapid exit, were some plants,
whose gentle swaying betrayed the passage of whatever it was.
I found myself pondering on the immenseness of time, and realised that compared to the life of the created world, my life was like that frantic flight - a brief disturbance, unnoticed by most.
Let's face it, within a few generations I will be no more than another name on a family tree.
No-one will remember much about me - what colour eyes I had, what makes me laugh, what songs I knew ALL the words to!
I have no right to complain. I can remember a lot about my own parents, though doubtless there is much more that I never knew.
However, my memories of my grandparents, particularly my grandfathers, is far more sketchy. I do remember my maternal grandmother doing a surprisingly good impersonation of Lena Zavaroni, though I doubt very much if it was her favourite song!

In the afternoon I sneaked off to one of the local nurseries to stock up on bedding plants. My previous visit was a bit early in the season, and there were a few gaps that I wanted to fill.  When we added the extra parking space at the front of the house, we rehomed the hebes into pots. Three years later and the poor things are potbound and in desperate need of some tlc, so I am in the process of replanting them, and adding some colour to the pots as they are vacated.

The garden centre was surprisingly busy - the car park was nearly full. I made my selections and left. Buying plants is a bit like ordering food off a menu - whatever your selection, you always think you have made the wrong choice when the food arrives and you see what others have ordered. I was reminded of this as I trundled out with my trolly of small plants, surrounded by flamoyant examples of mother natures bounty.  Forget green fingers, I was green eyed...

The table on the patio is now hidden under a profusion of verbena, lobelia, nicotiana and assorted small daisies.
Now all I have to do is find time to do some planting....

Back to reality

Monday dawned warm and sunny - the best morning for about a week - and we were going home!
Typical!
In preparation for our departure windows were closed and the roof lights shut.
Meanwhile, I was gently dissolving,
as I gave the van a final, final clean, prior to our departure.
In desperation I dug out the small fan I had already packed away, to help me keep my cool,
but even that stopped working when DH unplugged the electrics!









We headed north up the M5. The motorway was busy with haulage lorries, slowly inching their way past each other,  producing a bottleneck in their wake, as they effectively take a lane out of action for several miles.
A lot of families were also traveling home, have delayed their return by a few days in an attempt to beat the end of half-term motorway madness.

We paused for a break at Tellytubby Land - our favourite services.
As we had journeyed north we had watched the gauge recording the external temperature drop by a degree or so for every 50 miles traveled.
However. it was still warm enough to enjoy some fresh air, so we took our coffee outside,
only to find a film crew had beaten us to it!
Well, that was free entertainment thrown in for good measure.
This was the place where they recorded an interview.
I have no idea if it was for a promotion
or something more in depth.
I was rather amused to watch one dog walker walk past the bollards, and the film crew, to exercise his dog - oblivious to what was happening!
Cut!





We left Gloucester services and the Sat Nav immediately had a hissy fit
rerouting us off the motorway,
only to cancel the instruction a few minutes later,
then to repeat the instruction to leave,
and then quickly override it again
as the poor satnav tried desparately to work out if it really was better to stay or go.

Unfortunately, there had been an incident further up the motorway
which had resulted in a bent central crash barrier,
and the inevitable queues resulting from a lane closure.
The signs admonished us not to exceed 40mph - as we crawled along in the middle lane at 10mph.
Meanwhile, the in-car music system blared out "stuck in the middle with you".
The KHT is in to 80's music.
As each track starts I have to see how quickly I can name the track and artist.
As we crawl along the M5, I sing along with cheesy songs which I had forgotten existed.

Once we pass the incident the traffic quickly returned to normal speed,
and we covered the rest of the journey in the same time that it took us to travel three agonising miles in a traffic jam....

On arriving home we unload the car,
the washing machine goes on with the first of several loads, and we head off to a meeting.
Real life doesn't wait for us to unpack. It begins straightaway.

After tea DH digs out the lawnmower. The warm but moist weather has inspired significant growth in the garden and the lawn has not been spared.
When we left, only one water butt had any rainwater in it. On our return, they were all surprisingly full.

In our absence, the woodruffe and the small blue spears of pale flowers (which I have forgotten the name of - but it definitely isn't forget-me-not) have finished. Meanwhile the poppy, and white foxgloves are in bloom, though the poppy is down to its last few flowers.

Very quickly it feels as if we have not been away.
However, the mound of clothing and bedding quietly awaiting its turn in the washing machine,
reminds me that we have!

Glory on the highest

Saturday was cool. The KHT was suffering from the after-effects of too many train rides on warm trains the day before
"Let's just go the the beach!" she announced wearily.
''Good idea, but let us also go for a walk along the coast path first." I agreed.

When we arrived, we noticed that it was much warmer than it had been on the campsite, and so we had an unexpected beach day, which never did include the walk!

However, it was enlivened firstly by the visit of a lifeboat, probably on a training/reconnaissance visit, 

and secondly by some strange mist that drifted ethereally off the sea. 

Initially, I thought it was a BBQ further down the beach, but when I couldn't identify the source I realised that it was some metrological phenomenon, possibly haar.

In the evening we joined the Mid Devon ringers for their practise at Bovey Tracey.  

We drove back enjoying a glorious sunset.

On Sunday we had arranged to join the local ringers at Brent Tor church for their evening ringing.

I first saw this church through the fog/cloud when we were exploring the moors north of Tavistock on a damp summers day several years ago.

It has been on the list of places I have wanted to ring at ever since I realised that it had a ring of bells.

The plan had been to have lunch on the beach and then drive north, but Sunday dawned even cooler than Saturday, so we headed off to Saltram, a National Trust estate on the edge of Plymouth.

Most of the inhabitants of the city and surrounding area, plus holidaymakers, appeared to have had the very same good idea as ourselves. How rude!

Thus the main footpaths were busy

with couples and families, 

cyclists and dog walkers, 

buggy pushers, electric buggy riders, 

runners and amblers. 

Like many of the other visitors we set off on the yellow route.

However, as we only had a photo of the map to guide us, we only really got our bearings when we reached the Quay. We paused to enjoy the views across the River Plymm, reminding us of the city from which we had sought to escape!

The KHT diverted to explore the amphitheatre, and was quite taken with it, spending sometime surveying the world from her lofty vantage point.

As there was a good phone signal DH decided to play Pokemon Go for the first time in ages. DH has a bit of history with this game. Firstly he plays so infrequently that he always needs to carry out several updates before it will work. 

This usually results in a software mismatch, that leaves his character about a quarter of a mile from where it should be - usually running up and down some river! 

The consequences of this is that Pokestops are never quite where they should be. Then, whatever phone case he has seems to cause the game to stop working... 

The Yellow route ended with a short climb up to the house, and cafe, where we sat and enjoyed lunch in the outdoor seating area

Birds are a great feature of any National Trust cafe area. They soon learn that there will be an endless succession of leftovers to enjoy. We enjoyed watching bluetits, a robin, blackbirds, thrushes and of course the ducks in the adjacent pond - both the mallards and more unusual breads.

Next we toured the house. Its full of old stuff, like many other National Trust properties. The KHT enjoyed trying on costumes - replicas made for the purpose!

Soon it was time to head north for the evening service at Brent Tor church - the highest church in Southern England, and I do not mean Anglo-Catholic! There were about seven other ringers who turn up faithfully to ring these bells for evensong during the summer months. In the winter they practice on Saturday morning to ensure that these bells are still rung.
As the bells are rung from the back of the church, some bemused foreign tourists watched this strange English bellringing with interest.
The church tower seems to be a magnet for moisture and even on a warm summers evening, the slate floor was damp with condensation.

We stayed for evensong, led by one of the local Readers. Music was provided by a small keyboard. The small congregation of about twenty, plus dogs, who had all climbed the hill faithfully to attend worship, produced a volume that would have done credit to a larger congregation. One of the dogs added their own discordant counter melody to each song. Maybe he did not approve of Mission Praise... The sung chants and recited psalms seemed fitting in such an ancient place of worship. Three out of four of the selection from Mission Praise were traditional hymns. Nothing too radical was happening to rock traditional worship on this ancient rock.

Afterwards, we diverted to Whitchurch Common to eat a late picnic tea, noting that Brent Tor was still visible on the horizon. 

I do wonder how far from the church the bells can be heard.

We sat and watched as the sky turned from blue to gold.

Meanwhile, the sheep settled down, having decided that nothing of interest was going to happen

Then we drove back over the moors, at the end of another day that had not turned out entirely as we anticipated.  

Time, Tide and Visa Wait for No Man

Falling Tide at Totnes

Having heard about the 'Round Robin' Tickets on the Dart, we did some online research. However, trying to decipher a complicated leaflet using a flakey phone hotspot, drove us round the bend. We decided to head off to Totnes to investigate further.

I had a vague recollection of catching a steam train not far from the mainline station, so we began there. Alas, we couldn't find any sight of a boat, nor any information about robins of any kind, and concluded that we were probably in the wrong place.

We decided to head over to Steamer Quay, where sure enough a ferry was loading up with daytrippers. Unfortunately, by the time we had parked the car and located the ticket office, the ferry had departed. We understood that the tides influenced when the ferries ran, but what we had not appreciated was that there would not be another ferry until late afternoon! The 'Round Robin' had flown the nest - for that day, anyway!

As we had already paid for parking for the day, we decided to walk back across town to where we had originally parked, and catch the steam train to Buckfast Abbey. It was a good walk, but we consoled ourselves by remembering that exercise is good for you!






We purchased our train tickets and settled down in first-class. The seats were covered in garish cloth. The KHT's interesting combination of clothing colours added to the visual discord. However, we couldn't complain about the comfort of these generously proportioned seats.

When the Ticket Collector appeared to punch our tickets he delivered the following important piece of information
"And of course you do realise that these are 'all day' tickets and you can go up and down the track as often as you like?"




Buckfast is a regular destination for us, so we decided to enjoy two trips up and down the line, just because we could, and so that I would avoid the temptations of the bookshop at Buckfast Abbey...

Heading up the Dart Valley, the best views were on the other side of the train. The KHT took some convincing that she was allowed to stand in the corridor, and everytime anyone came, she darted back into the carriage before she spotted.














There was about 45 minute turn around at Buckfast. Plenty of time to watch the train have its water tank refilled, witness the engine to move to the other end of the train and go and get an ice cream.



We reboarded the train in an ordinary carriage and enjoyed the return trip to Totnes.

For the second trip back to Buckfast we ventured into the buffet car. It was really weird sitting on dining chairs on a train... We decided to indulge ourselves with a coffee. Alas, the lack of refrigeration available on a vintage train meant it came with UHT milk. I honestly would not have bothered if I had known. I drank a few sips and that was more than enough! Yuk! <understatement>

Having completed our train trips we walked back along by the river into Totnes town centre, and up the main shopping street. Fortunately, we found a coffee shop that was still open,  and serving decent coffee, as by now it was nearly 5pm.  DH's card was refused. He thought this was odd and used a different card, which went through without a hitch.

We headed over to Newton Abbot, where we had booked a table at a very good fish and chip restaurant, which also serves lemon sole - yum! DH had his fish served in rice crumb.

Checking the news we discovered that there were widespread problems with the VISA network that were affecting many retailers. Whilst we were relieved to know that it wasn't DH's card that was the problem, we hoped that whatever the issue was, would soon be sorted, for everyone's benefit.

We popped into Asda, who were taking cash payments only. Fortunately, we only wanted one item and that cost under a £1. DH had the excitement of inserting money into a self-serve checkout for the first time ever!

We make plans, but bigger forces are at work - some natural, some caused by man - albeit inadvertently.

We adapt. We change. Life goes on.