Love's Young Dream

The two of them are starting to irk now.

Young Keith and Charlii, that is.

I got fed up of them sitting there holding hands and whispering through all the Occasions. So I've separated them. Young Keith is now officially i/c Audio Visuals, and therefore has to sit at the back in the half-light, looking moody. The Leadership Team have been told to abandon all pretence at being on the same level as the punters, and have to sit up the front on their demi-druidical bean bags at all times.

Of course, that didn't initially stop them texting, did it. All the way through the singing, the liturgy, solemn lighting of tea lights, pouring out and filling up of beakers. No matter what we were doing, the lovey-doveyness never stopped.

So Hnaef's done a bit of techie magic for me and now we're broadcasting a scrambling signal on all frequencies. The Powerpoint's a lot sharper on its cues now. And all the Beaker People who had been claiming to "take notes" on their Smartphones during sermons have mysteriously discovered that their memories have improved. Amazing what a bit of electronic white noise can do to improve the worshipful atmosphere.

Girl on the Brighton Platform Smile

I picked up today on Sipech's response to the Archdruid's rant about the "Girl on the platform smile" advert.

Sipech, who blogs at "the Alethiophile", remarks that the station appears to be in Sussex. And after paying very careful attention to the advert, I believe he is right. You will notice that at one stage the man with the ukulele is standing in front of a destination board that clearly contains the letters "IGHTON" - which I would take to be short for "Brighton".

But this gives me pause to think - because the list of stations that the young man hazards for the young woman's destination are all in the North. It is unlikely that anyone would have a choice of Hull and Wigan from the same station even in the North - they laying at nearly opposite ends of the trans-Pennine route - unless indeed they were in Liverpool. But the chances of guessing she is going to one of these stations when she is sitting in a small station south of London are remote indeed.

And this afternoon, being in a similar romantic predicament to the man with the beard, I tried serenading a young lady from the opposite platform at Bletchley station with a ukulele. She did cross the platform, but then started hitting me with the ukulele and telling me to stop singing.

So I have come to a reluctant conclusion. Playing the ukulele at railway stations does not make you successful in love, and the people in that advertisement were not in the place they were pretending to be. I strongly suspect they may be actors. It would appear you can't trust anybody these days.

I have tried on-line dating agencies in an attempt to find a second wife myself - my first wife threw me out for "being boring". But when I enter my hobbies - train-spotting, Java programming, cycling and real-ale - into most websites I get a 404 error. I try not to take it personally.

Girl on the Platform Smile

A week or so ago it was pointed out (by @stukershaw, if you're interested) that this advert for a dating agency was getting a lot of showings on telly.

A few thoughts.

A 28-year-old woman is not really a "girl". She is a woman.

That "boy" has a beard. Infantilizing him isn't making this any better.

They're playing the long version a lot. Is this (a) because advertising is really cheap after Christmas or (b) because it's just after Christmas so lots of people need another relationship?

She can't half shift over that bridge, yet is mysteriously not out of breath by the time she materialises on the other platform.

Why the heck has he got a ukelele anyway?

If the solution to not being in a relationship was playing cheap musical instruments on railway stations, who would need Internet dating agencies?

I'm obviously not getting out enough.

How Still We See Thee Lie

Now you know how it is with church cleaners. Sometimes, like the flower arrangers, they get a bit picky about who's doing which bit of cleaning.

And you know how it is clergy, sometimes they get drawn into these affairs and end up trying to ensure that Mrs Browne-Jennings does the right hand side of the church, while Mrs Jennings-Browne does the right. And still bloodshed ensues as they work out which side of the church the side-chapel technically comes under.

But what happens if the clergy are the church cleaners?

And I like the Armenian Church, and I like the Greek Orthodox Church. But which is better?

I guess there was only one way to find out.
I hope the shepherds were quieter.

Drayton Reflects

There are two gates at Butlin's in Skegness. The main gate is open all day and night. The little gate that opens onto the promenade shuts at 5. Which means that if, like Burton on Sunday, you go for a bike ride up the promenade to the Admiral Benbow, you get locked out and have to come round the camp to the front gate. Which makes me recollect.

When I was a child, I would walk with my parents to chapel. In the summer, when the ground was dry, my father and I would take the long way back across the meadow, while mother went home to start cooking Sunday lunch, and we would come in to the garden through the back gate. We lived in a long lane, and the rest of the meadow was fenced off, so this was the only way through. But sometimes, because I was growing up and headstrong and yet still not old enough to control my emotions, I would get into a mood with my father and go off and hide in the bushes and refuse to come home. You know how children are.

Of course, I would never stay there. As soon as I thought he had walked off ahead, I would creep along behind him, peeking through the undergrowth and trying to make sure he could not see me. And he would always try to act like he was not looking back - but I always knew he would. And then when he got to the back gate and went in, I would always have that lurking horror that he might lock the gate, and I would be consigned to retrace my steps, and take the two-mile walk back through the meadow - which could be quite scary to an eight-year-old - and up the lane round to the front of the house, and find when I got in, scared and tearful, that dinner would be cold.

And do you know, every time it happened, the gate was locked.