I had a biggish post planned here. Several, actually.
An update on Mog, who has had big seizures, big sleepiness, big misery and now much giggling and happiness.
An update on the Little Princess, who is alternately finding suggestions for ways to avoid future surgery (planned for January), finding things to look forwards to about having had the op, and attempting to convince me we need four baby kittens. We don't.
An update on Grolly, who is now combining her new role of lap cat with a revival of her role of intrepid leaf-hunter. This, in Autumn, is causing damp wet tired cat to flop on my chest at every available opportunity, having previously carpeted the kitchen floor with mouldy horse chestnut leaves. These leaves are particularly attractive at five o'clock in the morning, and each one is supposed to be welcomed with much praise and adulation. It isn't.
Mildly humorous descriptions of all too brief excursions into the real world had been planned, including a promise to avoid any shop larger than Budgens for the next five weeks, and a reasonably irate rant about the placement of Christmas products combined with "new and improved" queuing systems which have now made it virtually impossible for the girls to get to the tills in most shops in town. But it was more infuriating than entertaining, and the vitriol bored me. So we'll skip that one too.
Smug "aha look at me, I've finished my Christmas shopping (or most of it) before Advent Sunday" post has been delayed due to the non-availability of certain items, the omission of certain persons from the list of people to shop for, and the sudden determination of one small child that only a particular piece of electronic gadgetry will do. It's probably just as well - it would only have been smugly irritating.
A post on the wonders of salted-pretzel-crusted chocolate chip cookie bars was stymied by the discovery that they were in fact fairly disgusting and not worth the effort of blogging about. Salted Fudge Brownies needed to be made in order to redress the balance.
There was comedy value last weekend; a friend with her own two somewhat wonky girls came to visit. And we did for a longer-than-it-should-have-been moment each have one small child screeching in bed and one less small child screaming uncontrollably across our laps. Visiting each other is such fun. Sounds like hell from the outside; from the inside, well, at least we had company. Misery shared and all that. Children irritating, and all that too.
And this weekend I'd planned something mildly edifying to do with our church's 50th Birthday. A bit of gentle grumping about a mother who would volunteer the Guides to help serve coffee then promptly disappear on holiday for a week leaving yours truly. But no need to grump really as it turns out we were only a very minor cog in the whole coffee-and-cake wheel. A comment on the Bishop's Birthday sermon, but I haven't heard it yet as I was busy putting out tablecloths and pinning balloons onto screens. A trip down memory lane; not that I've been at church for the whole fifty years, but that felt a little boring too.
I'll settle for saying, Christchurch is fifty. Young enough for the founders to be a part of the celebrations. In a building old enough to count as a "proper" Anglican church (having originally been Tithe Barn for the medieval abbey dissolved by Henry 8th). Following a God who is old enough to see the several hundred years between the building of the barn and the commissioning of the church in the blink of an eye, and young enough to relate to all of us, however old we are.
Happy Birthday, and here's to the next fifty.
And there you have a potted summary of what would I am sure have been some truly insightful posts. Alternatively, there you have just sufficient to confirm the fact a summary was the most sensible option.
I'm off to look at kittens later this week. Don't tell the Little Princess.