INSIDE AND OUTSIDE

With The Goslings

The Egyptian geese are doing well with their goslings; they still have five. They spend a lot of time near the Harrow Road, well away from Canada geese or swans, who are known to have murderous inclinations to  other birds' offspring. Actually there is a pair of swans with cygnets as well, but they don't seem to be resident locally. The Egyptian geese collaborate in the childminding, one sits alongside the goslings while the other scans the towpath for trouble, and honks loudly if trouble comes along. Some very perplexed dogs find themselves being dragged past a very noisy goose.


RIP JJN Part Two

My neighbour very kindly allowed me to assist him at  John Julius Norwich's funeral last Monday, at St Mary's, Paddington Green. The church is a late Georgian preaching-box with galleries, which was completely furnished anew, in repro-Georgian, by Raymond Erith and Quinlan Terry around 1970; it's all in the best possible taste. Fr Gary wore a black and gold cope of appropriately Venetian brocade. The church was packed, and I was amused to learn afterwards how little most people could see. The box pews are not very high-sided, but they do cut down vision, and if you weren't at the front of the galleries you could see nothing up there. That's the idea; that layout was designed for you to listen to a sermon, not participate in a liturgy.

Oddly, there was no sermon, nor even a eulogy. In fact, I was struck by how much the service had in common with funerals I have done with unchurched families here on the Warwick Estate. John Julius had professional musicians playing Schubert, instead of CDs playing hip hop, but the religious content was equally slim. Frankly, recognisably Anglican content was very scarce. The hymns were sung with great gusto: we had Crimond (Scottish), and Cwm Rhondda (Welsh), and the English offering was "I Vow to thee My Country", Sir Cecil Spring Rice's First World War recruiting song, set to Holst's "Jupiter", which isn't in most modern hymnbooks. Altogether a very public-school selection. We had readings from Shakespeare and Dryden's paraphrase of Horace, as well as Canon Scott Holland's "Death is Nothing at All". We also had two Schubert songs, and the "In Paradisum"  from Faure's Requiem (which obviously any right-thinking person would want), and we went out to the Widor Toccata (which didn't really suit the organ). So, it was a very full service, with lots of lovely things in it, but some would say more like a memorial service than a funeral.

The church was full of the great and the good. One of the reasons people couldn't see was that there were so many tall, distinguished-looking men in dark suits (not so much like the Warwick Estate). Among the mourners I spotted Simon Schama, Simon Jenkins, and David Attenborough, but no doubt there were loads more I failed to recognise.

St Mary's has a neo-Georgian church hall, also designed by Quinlan Terry, but this is let to a nursery school, and so the post-funeral refreshments were served inside the church. The vestry was full of sandwiches, and when I stood up to do the prayers, the reverential silence was punctuated by the clink of bottle and glass (which frankly would have amused JJN). After the service, the problem was one of circulation, especially since those in the galleries had to descend by one staircase which deposited them into the tiny lobby immediately inside the main door, so as they fought their way in to get a drink they met those already provided who were trying to get out to condole with the family in the graveyard. The phrase "fire regulations" leapt unbidden into my mind. You will understand that in our building and refurbishment works at St Mary Mags these questions have become very familiar to me.


Slowest on the Road

I always expect to be pretty much the slowest cyclist on any given road. Normally, the only people I will automatically overtake are those riding Boris bikes or Bromptons (and sometimes you meet a pimped Brompton, ridden by an enthusiast who can make it go very fast). Anyone in proper shorts, on a proper road bike, must be assumed to be faster than me. Anyone wearing a club jersey can be guaranteed to ride away from me. I reassure myself with the mantra that I am twice the age of many of them (certainly not all, though). On the last two occasions I have been out, though, I have been passed by small children, of about 10 or 11, riding small road bikes, alongside their fathers (in club jerseys). This is a bit tough to take, though I rationalise that they're shifting a lot less weight than me. Today, to cap it, I was passed by a father on a road bike towing a cart in which his small daughter sat.


Late Goals and VAR

I remember Helen saying, in despair, "But you don't like football," each time the World Cup came round; she didn't understand. At least Nigeria put in a performance worthy of their shirt against Iceland (is their mystique finally fading?) and there were two fine kits on display today. The Belgian gold and black with red details was classically fine, and I did like Mexico's change strip, white shirts with one maroon and one bottle green hoop, and maroon shorts. Pleasingly reminiscent of the classic West Ham sky blue with two claret hoops (though that was worn with pale shorts, which I think on balance is nicer). There was no need for the green detail on the shoulders, though. You have to keep watching to the end, though, because there are so many late goals (both of Brazil's against Costa Rica came after 90 minutes, for instance, and Son's lovely goal for South Korea today). I thought VAR was meant to stop arguments, but it clearly doesn't, because so many obvious infringements don't get referred. Great piece of punditry (a week ago) from Slaven Bilic, when asked to comment on some VAR decision, he shrugged his shoulders and said, deadpan, "Really, I don't care."