Friday, 28 September 2012

The Oil of Unity

I'd love to do a long post about how moving house has gone, but I don't have time to write one.  I hope this brief snippet of a conversation from this evening will give you some kind of idea.

We are in the kitchen.  Jeremy is grizzling in his chair, Abigail is tipping cards from a random board game all over the floor, and I am cooking mince and trying to work out how to add frozen vegetables when they are so frozen that they are all stuck together in one large block.  Hitting it against the counter top doesn't work.  TheRev approaches.

TheRev: Look, I've cleaned this oil pourer.

Me: Oh? I put that in the pile for the jumble sale.

TheRev: I know, but it's really useful.  If you want to add just a little bit of oil.

Me: Oil comes in bottles for that purpose.

TheRev: Just think what you could do!  You could make your own special blend of oil with all the kinds of oil we have.  Chilli oil, and stirfry oil, and olive could mix them all together in here!

Me: Actually, I need some oil...what's in this bottle?

TheRev: I think that's vinegar.

Me: For goodness sake!  Where's the sunflower oil?  I don't need all this, I just need...oh help, where am I going to put this enormous tub of oil?

TheRev: You could decant it into my useful little oil pourer.

Me: Yes, but I'd still have to store the rest of the tub somewhere, wouldn't I?

Abigail:  Wanta juice on a cup please.

Me:  Abigail, please put the cards back in the box, darling.

TheRev: Or, you could use this for when you want people to serve their own oil.

Abigail: Wanta juice please wanta juice please wanta JUICE PLEEEEEEASE!

Me: In a minute Abi, when we sit down to eat...When will I want people to serve their own oil?!

TheRev: Or maybe balsamic vinegar? On salad? Like this (shakes the pourer from his wrist with a motion rather reminiscent of the original version of Cage Aux Folles)

Me: Look, if you really have to keep the silly thing as a serving implement, then it belongs down there in the cupboard on the right, with the salad bowls.  Please give Jeremy a cuddle, I can't hear myself think.

TheRev: Right!  OK!  (Strolls off.  Slight pause)  I think I've broken it.

Me: How did you break it?

TheRev: I sort of banged it...

Me: You sort of banged it?

TheRev: I'll put it in the pile for the jumble sale...

Friday, 7 September 2012

Scargill in pictures and a poem

Abigail loved her bed with the roof and the special light. She also quickly developed an obsession with eating marmalade straight from the little plastic pots with her fingers.

She actually ate on this holiday! But shhh, don't tell her we noticed...Seriously, though, she really seemed to blossom here in every aspect of behaviour and her speech as well.  I enjoyed her company so much.
"Oh, hello, sheep."  (Also, TheRev had just said something like, "I'll carry the umbrella.  Look! I can wear it like a sword...")

 Strait is the gate...especially if you are carrying a baby!

 In Kettlewell church, we said morning prayer; but we warbled the Benedictus rather loudly, apparently, as two walkers who came in later complimented us on our singing...That's me reading about David and Absalom, although at this point Jeremy seems to be doing more of the storytelling.

 This may be further evidence of my insanity, but looking at this view makes me want to lie down and roll down that hill.

 A new best friend for Jeremy and Abi

And another one...Jeremy was good at making friends.  Abi mainly befriended a large pink string puppet, but that's another story.

 Babies on the back

Scargill, 4am

I told myself I'd use this time to pray,
But my son's sleepy snuffling at the breast
Has lulled me to a semi-slumbering rest
And skims the rising bubbles of my prayers away.
Subjects occur to me, but never stay:
In the peripheries of my mind swim pleas and fears
That vanish, like a star which disappears
When looked at straight. The dawning of the day
Is nearly here. Birdsong. I sigh and yawn.
My reverent efforts having failed, my thoughts
Switch to toast and coffee: prayer leaves with no trace.
Yet somehow, in the meshes of the dawn
Around this prayed-in place, my prayers are caught
And every wordless word is heard with grace.