It was Mother's Day yesterday. A bit strange, that. I feel like it should be May. The fact that it has been the most absolutely
un-typically British weather for the last seven days also assists in the illusion- unbroken brilliant sun and warm breezes. The crocuses and daffodils and primroses are up, the birds are singing very loudly, the chestnuts are bringing forth sticky buds, and this part of the world in general is lifting up its metaphorical head and remembering that the universe was not always composed of sleet and grey mist.
It is lovely. Lovely, lovely.
This Sunday night was The Carpenter's Arms - a supper that St Luke's Church puts on for the homeless every month. It was terribly excellent; we had roast chicken and Y
orkshire puddings (the English have a curious outlook on the appropriateness of certain foods with certain meats. For instance, I always thought that it was impossible to have Y
orkshire pudding with anything but roast beef, while mashed potatoes were suitable for any meal. This, I am informed, is not the case! Puddings go with anything, but the only proper thing to eat with chicken is roast potatoes. There, my
philistinic culinary prejudices have been corrected, Thank Goodness!) and a nice bit of worship music and a little talk. Previously, I have just sat and visited with the people who come, but this time I got conscripted into the washing-up pit, and spent a very satisfying hour scrubbing the remains of apple tart off various pie pans that the ladies of the parish had brought in. I thoroughly enjoyed myself. Sometimes, one cannot beat a good bit of hard scrubbing to any amount of metaphysical evangelism.
A public garden in a nearby town called Lewes. I was second-hand book shopping, and had my lunch here.
Lewes Gardens again. I believe that they used to be part of an Elizabethan manor.
There were thousands and thousands of bulbs.
A bunny in the ruins of a monastary.
Magnolia blossoms. My grandpa calls these Tulip Trees. They are very beautiful.
A grey squirrel. Slightly larger than the red squirrel, it has almost entirely irradicated the native species. I have an ambition to see a red squirrel before I leave.
The Peace Statue covered in snow. The peace statue is one of my favourite Brightonian things.
Snow on the seafront.
Trees in West Sussex, near Haywards Heath.
This is Matthew, the three-year old son of the family I am staying with. He is hiding in my clothes rack.
This is Becky, the two-year old daughter of the people I am living with. She is very lovely.
This is the view along the beach in the early morning when I go for a walk.
The homeless have been struggling with the cold these last few weeks; and I am becoming more and more amazed at the seemingly superhuman survival of roughsleepers in Canada during minus 30 or minus 40 degree cold snaps after seeing what a struggle it is to stay alive for a windy night of minus 1 or 2. When I tell them how cold it is in Edmonton right now, they refuse to believe it, never mind the fact that we can have any homeless people at all. They say that they must have all died off in previous winters, or given up tramping entirely.
The English also do not know, it seems, about triple-glazed windows, storm doors, or even (in my opinion) decent insulation. Thus you are unable to escape from the cold completely; it follows you wherever you go. I seem to have a draft that haunts me like a personal poltergeist from the moment I wake up until I crawl under my frigid covers that night. And so now I understand - and participate in - the national love of a good mug of tea to wrap your hands around. It is not only an addiction and a sacred social convention, it is a defensive weapon in the ever-raging war between the elements of wind, rain and sleet, and that of humanity and all that it stands for. In this sense (and in many others) a cup of tea is the symbol of culture, and the apex of civilization.
