Mother's Day

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 Yorkshire 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 Yorkshire 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.