Pentecost

I've had my eyes opened this morning.

We were all gathered together in one place in the Moot House, for the holding-of-hands ceremony prior to the Pentecost Extravaganza. I'm not so keen on the holding-of-hands - ensure everyone uses antibacterial soap before and after - but it does amuse me the way it makes the more uneasy-with-their-feminine-side squirm.

Then there was the rushing of a mighty wind, and tongues of fire appeared. It was all thanks to Young Keith and his industrial wind-machine. Turns out it goes up to "11". Blew four panels out of the Moot House wall and shorted the circuits. At which point the electronic dove cage failed safe and all the doves flew out through the roof lights to safety.

Of course, we'd shut the sluice to make the brook rise, and the Beaker People were standing in half an inch of water when the electrics went on the fritz. Everyone's hair stood on end (except Burton's, who is follicularly challenged) and remained so until the whole circuit tripped.

I walked out of the wreckage of the Moot House and across to the Room of Viewing. I find when things go spectacularly wrong, a bit of telly can calm me down. But saw the news from Syria. And then considered that the celebration of Eurovisual harmony and humanity on telly yesterday - nearly everyone singing American English, like a latter-day Pentecost - was broadcast from a country with a dreadful record on democracy and treatment of its people. Figured the tame Holy Spirit we'd be hoping to encounter isn't the angry hurricane the world actually needs, who lifts up the weak and blows away the powerful.

Walked back outside and the doves have messed all over the 4x4s in the car park. I think maybe it's a sign.