Taxing Questions
The big white hoarding round the building site at St Mary Mags attracts occasional graffiti. The other weekend a strange one appeared. The contractors painted over it on Monday morning and never mentioned it to me, but I had seen it for myself. It read. "St Mary Mags W2 why do churchs (sic) pay no tax ever?". That rather left me at a loss, because what tax does the writer mean? Of course churches pay tax, we pay VAT (and unlike a business have no way of passing that on to the public), we pay tax on our insurance premium, churches that employ people pay National Insurance, and so on. I pay income tax, and National Insurance. The church doesn't pay income tax, because a church is not an individual, and what are we supposed to be paying tax on, exactly? It is true that we can apply for relief from VAT on building works to listed places of worship, but we do actually pay the tax, it just gets refunded as some sort of recognition that we are maintaining the nation's architectural heritage. I presume there are some reliefs that operate because we are a charitable institution, and are not generating profits for any individual or corporation. So what's wrong with that? What is it that we might be paying tax on that the writer thinks we aren't?
Strange Objects
An enormous wooden reel, of the sort that cables are wound around, was left at the entrance to the park, like a giant's cotton-reel. Where it had come from no-one seemed to know. After a while it vanished. Now in the same spot, a pizza delivery scooter has been left, somewhat damaged.
Boogie Nights
So Monday evening was the meeting of the Westbourne Forum Board, Tuesday evening was Paddington Deanery Synod, Wednesday evening was St Peter's PCC, and tonight is St Mary Magdalene's PCC. I thought yesterday evening's PCC went well, all very jovial and consensual, though interrupted by what appeared to be an aggressive beggar at the door, who was seen off by two Nigerian ladies, but it turns out that wasn't a beggar. It was a man from the Felix Project trying to deliver food to us (why didn't he say that?) and so my poor churchwarden, who runs the Support Services (and wasn't at PCC because she was at a Grenfell meeting) had to come back at 10pm to receive the delivery. So I feel like a worm. And then I look at my notes and find several items marked "Action Fr.H", so not such a good meeting after all.
Garden Thoughts
Helen's uncle Reg, who was a professional gardener, came and helped us with the garden around St Peter's many years ago. Among other things, he planted two tamarisks, which are now beginning to threaten the path. I am trying to weave their branches into the railings to make a hedge, but I keep forgetting to bring secateurs and gloves with me on occasions when I have half an hour to do it. Each time I lock up my bike beside them I remember eating a picnic lunch under tamarisks in Jordan last March and get all wistful. That was at Azraq, where Lawrence spent the winter of 1917 in the Roman fort, which is much as he left it. Surely our tamarisks won't grow into big trees, like those? The trouble is that Uncle Reg, like many competent gardeners, made the mistake of assuming competence in those left in charge of the garden, which was a mistaken assumption. Some people round here are flat dwellers who would love to garden, but they usually know nothing; then there are people like me, who have gardens and neglect them, but are expected to know something; and then there are those for whom gardens are something provided by the Council or the Queen. Together we're not great at looking after the garden, and it doesn't really repay us, because it's more a narrow strip of exposed earth, heavily shadowed, in a sort of trench between the building and the pavement. Still, the tamarisks seem to thrive there.
Paddington Graffiti
Those of a certain age will remember the extraordinary message "Far away is near at hand in images of elsewhere" which was painted on a wall beside the parcels depot on the approach to Paddington Station in the late 1970s, and which remained for many years, until the wall was demolished. For a while, just a fragment remained, but then that went as well. Michael Wharton, who wrote as Peter Simple in the Daily Telegraph created a legend for the artist he called "the Master of Paddington", but I've often wondered who did paint it, and in what circumstances. As I remember it, the words were about a foot high, block capitals, in white paint, and clearly painted with a brush not a spray. I remember once, as a student, sitting on a train with Dr William Oddie as he mused on the contrasting lives of those on either sides of the track as we approached the graffiti, little imagining that thirty-three years later I would be involved in some of those lives.
Thursday 16 November 2017
Wednesday 15 November 2017
THE MONTH OF HOLY SOULS
Requiem
So All Souls’ Day came and went without disaster. This year
we sang the Requiem by Gounod, and while you’ve probably heard of him (“Faust”,
“Ave Maria”) you won’t know his Requiem (actually one of three he wrote,
according to Nicholas, who runs the Music Society and knows his stuff). It is a
fine piece, and parts are very lovely.
The problem with an elaborate musical setting is that you
often find yourself sitting around being sung to at times when the logic of the
liturgy is to move forward, rather than being static, so we try to use the
settings creatively to produce an experience which has both liturgical and
musical integrity. I confess to a particular discomfort with the prevailing
high church practice of singing an elaborate Sanctus and Benedictus in the
middle of the Eucharistic Prayer, while the celebrant stands idly at the altar
for several minutes. This fights against the unity of the Eucharistic Prayer, creates
a great hiatus in the drama of the liturgy, and is totally alien to the
intentions of the composers. The idea was that the celebrant would continue
saying the Eucharistic Prayer while the music happened over the top, and so
that is what we do. We print everything out, so the congregation know what’s
going on, and of course they can see our movements at the altar. The
synchronization between liturgical text and music is only approximate (I
suppose it ought to work best with the Latin Roman Canon, but I’ve never tried
that) but almost always you get a pleasing musical climax at an important
moment.
Musicians often tell me that playing this music in its real
setting makes sense of it, and I noticed that our soprano soloist made her
communion this time. Some people are uncomfortable with the idea of prayer for the dead, but it is the most natural thing in the world to continue to pray for those whom you love after they have died, as you prayed for them during their lifetimes. The setting of the Requiem, as Nicholas Kaye has often pointed out in his "programme notes" for the occasion, gets to the heart of a composer's spiritual outlook, and the result is often very profound. The combination of music and liturgy can be very powerful,
and it is certainly very moving to be at the altar.
This year was special because we weren’t at St Mary Mags,
since it is completely full of scaffolding, and so took over Holy Trinity, Prince Consort Road,
thanks to the incredibly hospitable priest and people there. It was also
memorable because we were running alongside the premiere of “Murder on the
Orient Express” at the Royal Albert Hall, so our arrival at church was greeted
with searchlights and rock music. The red carpet approach to the Albert Hall is
from Prince Consort Road
(up those rather fine steps which you never normally see) and so we were
running the gauntlet of security men and black Mercedes. Apparently someone
found themselves behind Dame Judi Dench. Blessedly, everyone seemed to arrive
on time (including busloads of choirboys) and it all went beautifully. I came
back the next day with my car to retrieve our candlesticks, vestments,
thurible, gospel book and so on, and all was quiet once more.
Animal Rites
Yesterday, I was called out to tend to the dying, in this
case a dying dog in a flat on the estate. I know my rigorist colleagues will
sneer at the sentimental liberalism of this episode, but it had to be done.
Here was an animal companion (in a household well-known to me, for we have
baptized grandchildren) whose passing was causing immense grief to her owner.
In that situation prayer was entirely appropriate, and I’m glad they asked me.
The elderly Staffie knew she was surrounded by love, and we commended her to
the love of God, her creator, which was obviously the right thing to do. The
owner was comforted, and that was the point.
A Regular Caller
One of my regular callers is in despair as his wife has been
arrested, and remanded in custody. What he says, about an assault, makes little
sense and I assume there is more to it. I help him to get to court, miles away
(why?) and am impressed by the politeness and helpfulness of the court officer
on the other end of the phone; it is still possible to treat people with dignity and respect.
Thursday 2 November 2017
ON THE ROADS
On the Roads of Flanders
One of the striking things about spending a few days in Flanders was seeing how civilized the roads were. This came as a surprise, as my friend Robert, living in France, has completely absorbed the French view of Belgian drivers as aggressive and dangerous, and Robert has passed this insight on to me. In reality, though, apart from a fondness for tailgating (which may be what annoys the French) we found Belgian drivers quite harmless. That said, we did pass a series of major shunts on the motorway north of Ghent one morning, in which tailgating was no doubt a major factor. What struck me, though, was an absence of apparent aggression, both on the open road and, especially, in town. For the Londoner, this came as a revelation. Urban driving was remarkably considerate, and as a visitor you had to adapt to that quite quickly, because co-existence is clearly the basic principle in Belgium. As a cyclist, I was very pleased to see the way that cars took care of bicycles, but it was clear that the cycling and motoring cultures are both different in Belgium from the UK. We looked carefully as we drove and walked around Ghent, and saw hundreds of cyclists, of whom only two were wearing helmets. Those two were also the only ones riding what we in England would now call road bikes (what we called racing bikes when we were children); there were a few hybrids, but the great majority were riding what we call Dutch bikes, the sit-up-and-beg style, relatively heavy-framed and slow, but comfortable and equipped for carrying stuff. I presume that this means that lots of Belgians have a second bike at home, which they just get out at the weekend for long leisure rides (or to go fast) as I suppose I do. Most Brits, though, seem to have just the one bike, which they use for commuting as well as fun, and so they want it to be capable of speed. The difference, though, is not just about the bikes, but about the attitude, because most cyclists in London are desperate to get from one place to another as fast as they can, and so the serene progress of a Dutch bike would be unacceptable. It wasn't just that the Flemish motorists were better-mannered than you would find in London, so were the cyclists. It strikes me that a bit of serenity would improve the urban environment all round!
Essex Road
I had plenty of opportunity for car-borne contemplation a couple of Fridays ago, when I drove to see my family on the Essex-Suffolk border. I normally take the train, but Network Rail were doing something that meant that the return journey on Saturday would involve an hour on a bus and then being deposited at Newbury Park (for the uninitiated, it's a station on the Central Line in the outer Essex suburbs, famous for having been built with a car park covered by a spectacular roof). I can understand the rationale for this, but that's not what I call getting home. I have a visceral aversion to the train/bus combination, because it always involves a vast amount of waiting in line (as it is bound to, when you consider the relative capacities of train and bus) and the disturbance in mid-journey is just really tiresome. It's my choice, and I regretted it on this occasion. In favourable conditions (as on the return journey on Saturday evening) the journey to my brother's house should take a little over two hours; on that Friday it took me over four hours. I was already over an hour behind schedule before I reached the M25, and that was without any real problems on the Finchley Road; thereafter there was a delay at every opportunity. Now, I suppose I would have been agitated if I had an appointment I had to get to, and I would have got tense if I had had a passenger, but on my own, just going to see my family with no particular agenda for the evening, I was able to regard the delays with more equanimity. I began to feel that this could be an opportunity for cultivating an attitude of serenity rather than anger, so I worked at that. When totally stationary on the M25, and with the engine off, I called my brother to let him know how I was doing. That gave him an idea of my arrival, but then there was an accident on the A12 (a horrid road at the best of times) and by the time I came off the dual carriageway, to make my way through country lanes, it was pitch dark, and so I got lost a couple of miles from my destination, a journey that in daylight (as planned) I would have done with no problem. I confess that my equanimity was shot to pieces by that, since it was my mistake, and I was theoretically in control of putting it right. So I did not arrive as calm and serene as I had hoped, and they were just about to start eating dinner, so guilt was added to the mixture!
Local Deliveries
Today is our biggest event of the year, the Solemn Requiem for All Souls' Day, which St Mary Magdalene's has done for the past forty years or so with a full orchestra and choir, performing a French Romantic setting (this year it is Gounod, and no, you won't have heard it). Since St Mary Magdalene's is full of scaffolding, and St Peter's much too small (and to be truthful, lacking in atmosphere) we had to find another venue. I had to find a church in West London that was not having its own All Souls' Day service, (so probably not Anglo-Catholic) but would not have theological objections to one (so probably not Evangelical). The vital feature was an absence of pews, so we could have space for the orchestra, and of course simply a church that was large enough for orchestra, choir and say two hundred worshippers. Everyone also wanted somewhere Victorian and atmospheric, to suit the spirit of what we do. I found one very suitable church, and was confident I could answer the Vicar's theological queries, but gave up when he told me he would have to take it to the church council, because the idea of trying to convince an entire PCC was just too much. Instead I was directed to Holy Trinity, South Kensington, which is in Prince Consort Road, just behind the Albert Hall, and fits the bill splendidly. They are hugely helpful, but last week they told us that they had just learnt that the road would be closed today because there was a film premiere at the Albert Hall this evening; o joy! So instead of spending today driving around delivering things from here to there, I did it yesterday, and am now on tenterhooks in case I forgot something. I became acquainted with how particularly pushy Kensington drivers are, while I cultivated my equanimity. It all took longer than I had assumed, because I am used to doing these journeys by bike, not car. Today I shall wear my best reflective clothing and ride my bike over there.
One of the striking things about spending a few days in Flanders was seeing how civilized the roads were. This came as a surprise, as my friend Robert, living in France, has completely absorbed the French view of Belgian drivers as aggressive and dangerous, and Robert has passed this insight on to me. In reality, though, apart from a fondness for tailgating (which may be what annoys the French) we found Belgian drivers quite harmless. That said, we did pass a series of major shunts on the motorway north of Ghent one morning, in which tailgating was no doubt a major factor. What struck me, though, was an absence of apparent aggression, both on the open road and, especially, in town. For the Londoner, this came as a revelation. Urban driving was remarkably considerate, and as a visitor you had to adapt to that quite quickly, because co-existence is clearly the basic principle in Belgium. As a cyclist, I was very pleased to see the way that cars took care of bicycles, but it was clear that the cycling and motoring cultures are both different in Belgium from the UK. We looked carefully as we drove and walked around Ghent, and saw hundreds of cyclists, of whom only two were wearing helmets. Those two were also the only ones riding what we in England would now call road bikes (what we called racing bikes when we were children); there were a few hybrids, but the great majority were riding what we call Dutch bikes, the sit-up-and-beg style, relatively heavy-framed and slow, but comfortable and equipped for carrying stuff. I presume that this means that lots of Belgians have a second bike at home, which they just get out at the weekend for long leisure rides (or to go fast) as I suppose I do. Most Brits, though, seem to have just the one bike, which they use for commuting as well as fun, and so they want it to be capable of speed. The difference, though, is not just about the bikes, but about the attitude, because most cyclists in London are desperate to get from one place to another as fast as they can, and so the serene progress of a Dutch bike would be unacceptable. It wasn't just that the Flemish motorists were better-mannered than you would find in London, so were the cyclists. It strikes me that a bit of serenity would improve the urban environment all round!
Essex Road
I had plenty of opportunity for car-borne contemplation a couple of Fridays ago, when I drove to see my family on the Essex-Suffolk border. I normally take the train, but Network Rail were doing something that meant that the return journey on Saturday would involve an hour on a bus and then being deposited at Newbury Park (for the uninitiated, it's a station on the Central Line in the outer Essex suburbs, famous for having been built with a car park covered by a spectacular roof). I can understand the rationale for this, but that's not what I call getting home. I have a visceral aversion to the train/bus combination, because it always involves a vast amount of waiting in line (as it is bound to, when you consider the relative capacities of train and bus) and the disturbance in mid-journey is just really tiresome. It's my choice, and I regretted it on this occasion. In favourable conditions (as on the return journey on Saturday evening) the journey to my brother's house should take a little over two hours; on that Friday it took me over four hours. I was already over an hour behind schedule before I reached the M25, and that was without any real problems on the Finchley Road; thereafter there was a delay at every opportunity. Now, I suppose I would have been agitated if I had an appointment I had to get to, and I would have got tense if I had had a passenger, but on my own, just going to see my family with no particular agenda for the evening, I was able to regard the delays with more equanimity. I began to feel that this could be an opportunity for cultivating an attitude of serenity rather than anger, so I worked at that. When totally stationary on the M25, and with the engine off, I called my brother to let him know how I was doing. That gave him an idea of my arrival, but then there was an accident on the A12 (a horrid road at the best of times) and by the time I came off the dual carriageway, to make my way through country lanes, it was pitch dark, and so I got lost a couple of miles from my destination, a journey that in daylight (as planned) I would have done with no problem. I confess that my equanimity was shot to pieces by that, since it was my mistake, and I was theoretically in control of putting it right. So I did not arrive as calm and serene as I had hoped, and they were just about to start eating dinner, so guilt was added to the mixture!
Local Deliveries
Today is our biggest event of the year, the Solemn Requiem for All Souls' Day, which St Mary Magdalene's has done for the past forty years or so with a full orchestra and choir, performing a French Romantic setting (this year it is Gounod, and no, you won't have heard it). Since St Mary Magdalene's is full of scaffolding, and St Peter's much too small (and to be truthful, lacking in atmosphere) we had to find another venue. I had to find a church in West London that was not having its own All Souls' Day service, (so probably not Anglo-Catholic) but would not have theological objections to one (so probably not Evangelical). The vital feature was an absence of pews, so we could have space for the orchestra, and of course simply a church that was large enough for orchestra, choir and say two hundred worshippers. Everyone also wanted somewhere Victorian and atmospheric, to suit the spirit of what we do. I found one very suitable church, and was confident I could answer the Vicar's theological queries, but gave up when he told me he would have to take it to the church council, because the idea of trying to convince an entire PCC was just too much. Instead I was directed to Holy Trinity, South Kensington, which is in Prince Consort Road, just behind the Albert Hall, and fits the bill splendidly. They are hugely helpful, but last week they told us that they had just learnt that the road would be closed today because there was a film premiere at the Albert Hall this evening; o joy! So instead of spending today driving around delivering things from here to there, I did it yesterday, and am now on tenterhooks in case I forgot something. I became acquainted with how particularly pushy Kensington drivers are, while I cultivated my equanimity. It all took longer than I had assumed, because I am used to doing these journeys by bike, not car. Today I shall wear my best reflective clothing and ride my bike over there.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)