An unusually frustrating day, even by the standards of the Beaker People.
One when nobody could get the simplest point, no matter how many times I tried to drum it into them. Lothlurian tried to play "Orinoco Flow" six times, and got the bass line wrong every time.
And then Gurbit locked himself into the 2nd floor bathroom, and resolved the problem by hanging down from the window and dropping. Thus giving us two problems - or three, if you count each of his broken legs separately.
Thankfully, Sister Brunhilda, our new Nun-in-Residence, was on hand. She left the Church of England on principle - the principle being that all her fellow Anglican nuns had, and she didn't want to miss out on a good defection. But she believes in women in leadership, so realised the Ordinariate wasn't for her, and joined the Beaker Folk as a kind of surrogate protest. Anyway, it turns out that when she was at St Olbert's Convent, she was the handy-nun, so to speak. So based on her technical experience she kindly offered to open the bathroom door.
Naturally I assumed she had some special tools for opening locked doors - or at least was skilled in the use of credit cards in these circumstances. But no. She took a run down the corridor, and threw herself at the door. Being 4'3" and about six stone, naturally she bounced off. I tried to suggest she enlist a bigger helper - if we're just going to smash our way through doors, we might as well use Hnaef - but she insisted that, if she waited on the Lord, she would fly on wings like eagles' and smash through doors like hippos.
I guess I watched the flying nun-bouncing nun-rebounding nun scenario five or six times before I took my leave. Seeing a nun smash down a bathroom door undoubtedly has its attractions, but to be honest, Gurbit's screams were getting a bit annoying and I thought I'd better phone for an ambulance.
And so there we have the normal Beaker Life summed up in a nutshell. Rotten music, plummeting wallies and door-smashing nuns. I'd despair. But somehow, this is life in all its fullness. We see stupidity, foolishness and unwisdom in equal measure. We react wrongly, selfishlessly and - in my case - almost certain in a poorly-prioritised manner. But we are blessed with the knowledge that, imperfect as it all is, our life is shot through with the love of the kind of Genius that could conceive of resonance, gravity, or indeed flying nuns. We are deeply blessed. Sore of ear, broken, bandaged, thigh-deep in plaster-of-paris and in need of a good carpenter - but deeply blessed.