Not Greenbelt 2015

I'm aware there are lots of people who go to Greenbelt, and it's very good. At least, I presume it is. I've not been since about 1990. Last time I went to Greenbelt,  I was in the tent at the seminal moment when Martin Joseph was listening to Revd John Smith, Bono crept in under the side of the tent and disturbed Martin so he didn't hear what John Smith was saying, and as a result he wrote the song "Bono makes me cry". Shortly after, he crossed out "Bono" and wrote "Dolphins*" and the rest is history.

This year, Not Greenbelt will not be at Castle Ashby, not by permission of the Duke of Northampton.

I digress. There are many people who will not be going to Greenbelt 2015. Some will be wanting to vote for Jeremy Corbyn. Some are allergic to Kettering. And some can't afford to stock up in Rushden Waitrose on the way.

Well for you people - indeed, we people - help is at hand. For the third glorious year, Graham Hartland is organising NotGB2015. OK, strictly speaking it was NotGB2014 last year. And NotGB2013 the year before. But go and have a look.  You can have a pint of absolutely anything you like in the Hens Wings pub, without leaving the comfort of your own breakfast bar. They'll let you in whether you're uninterested in art, not a Christian or even a Tory.** And it's for a good cause.

Personally, I'm pleased to be running this years "Drainstage" on "The Cringe". We let people with artistic pretensions up to perform. And the minute they say something that makes a panel of three observers all cringe, we pull a big lever and drop them into the drain. Examples of things that make us cringe include people who recommend laying-on of hands for minor sniffles, over-the-top claims that music can cure world hunger and bring in world peace, and anybody who can only play three chords.

Nobody's made it off Drainstage in two years.

---

* If dolphins make you cry, try peeling them underwater.

** John Selwyn Gummer was the last Tory voter to attend Greenbelt. Shortly after feeding his daughter a beefburger. Not a Greenbelt burger. That'd be an organic, vegetarian, free-range burger I reckon.

Festival of Hand-holding

Beaker Folk may shuffle into a circle.

Men who are less in touch with their feelings may try to sneak to stand between two women.

Archdruid: We all stand in solidarity.

All: We are one community.

Archdruid: Let us join hands in the circle as a symbol of our unity.

All may join hands.

People who are aggressively pacific may look earnestly, but not erotically, into the eyes of people across the circle.

People who are not so in touch with their feelings may look at the floor, close their eyes or, if really assuredly not in touch with their feelings,  feel the urge to cross themselves.

All: You're not holding hands with anyone, Eileen.

Archdruid: Well, I'm standing next to Burton and Marston.  You must be kidding.

Marston: Yuk!  Burton's all sweaty.

Burton: Well I've just had a 30-mile bike ride...

Archdruid: OK. Let go of each other.

Beaker Folk release each other's hands in relief. Marston may wipe his hands on his jeans or, as appropriate, cargo shorts.

Archdruid: We have shown that we can join together in unity and peace.

All: Let's not do it again.

Anglican Logic - Circling the Quadrilateral

The reported removal of the Permission to Officiate from Jeremy Timms, a Reader (ie Anglican equivalent of a Local Preacher) in Yorkshire has exercised many.

Not least as because the offence that Mr Timms is committing - marrying a member of the same genital grouping - is not one which has previously been advertised as resulting in the removal of PTO from Readers. This was previously believed to be, as a kind of Disbenefit of the Clergy, only for the ordained orders. But it now appears that Jeremy Timms can do Reading or Marrying, but not both. I don't know if there's a vibrant inclusive church scene in Yorkshire, but I believe the Methodists are slightly more relaxed in these matters.

Which has led some people to ask what is the matter with Anglican Logic - that a prohibition on one thing, turns out to be a prohibition on something (literally) of another order.

Well, we know not the fine details of Jeremy Timms' case. Always two sides etc. So let's leave that. But Anglican Logic is another matter.

Anglican Logic is not so much a series of inductive steps, a reasoning from A to Z or comparison of oranges with another fruit via whatever process makes sense. Rather it is more like a form of geometry.

Anglican Logic, since the day Cranmer wrote a Prayer Book for a bunch of pseudo-Catholics and wannabe Presbyterian Calvinists, is about finding the nearest point in a multi-dimensional grid to all other points. It is a bit like that demonstration of gravity where you roll a ball bearing around on a stretched piece of rubber to find the lowest-energy point. While all the time worrying that, this time, the rubber sheet might snap.

Anglican Logic is about finding the path of least resistance in an environment in which everything is full of friction.

That's why Anglican logic can defy the comprehension of people with more regular logic - atheists, fundamentalist Protestants, Catholics. Given a really thorny question of morality, one that asks really hard questions about our human nature - the fundie will ask what does the Bible say? The atheist will look for an evidenced, scientific basis to proceed. The Catholic, taking into account the scientific evidence, will ask what is God's will in this, given the Biblical revelation in the light of the Church's historical wisdom. While the Anglican will go off to work out how many pews can be removed without upsetting the people who like pews, and how many pews will have to be left to keep the Victorian Society happy. Anglican logic is more like a tightrope than a ladder.

So we can expect Anglican attitudes to sexuality to continue to walk a balance between people who want complete freedom and equality for all - and those who still have in the garage a supply of both tar, and feathers. It's the Anglican way. It's Anglican logic. Maybe it would be better to talk about the drain on the East wall? It's blocking up in wet weather. Should a few branches be lopped off that ash tree? Or do you think that would need a faculty?

QI 3000 - The World Day of Care for Creation

Stephen Frybot: And so, my little metalloid and mutant friends. What can you tell me about the origins of the Roman Catholic "World Day of Care for Creation"?

Alan Davisdroid: Well. My mother used to tell me it was all started by St Francis....

*KLAXON* "St Francis" flashes on the display.

Stephen Frybot: No, no, little Alan. St Francis did love all the birdies and the bunny-rabbits. But it wasn't him.

Phill Jupiterz: Was it invented because of the Little Baby Jesus being born in a stable, surrounded by animals?

*KLAXON* "Lickle Baby Jesus" flashes on the display.

Stephen Frybot: Phill, Phill, Phill. I've been telling you that the Baby Jesus never really existed for 1000 years now. Who are you going to believe - me or God?

Jack Whitehall's Brain in a Saline Solution in a Bottle: Was it a copy of the Church of England Harvest Festival?

*KLAXON* "Harvest Festival" flashes on the display.

Stephen Frybot: No, Jack. Although we know the Catholic Church copied many things from the Church of England: Women bishops, for example, Lord of the dance, Lycra cassocks and out-of-tune guitars, they never stole that lovely Harvest Festival.

The Electronic Memory of Rory Bremner: I remember something about Harvest Festival. It was invented by Parson Hawker of Morwenstowe. He used to sit around for hours on end, taking drugs. And therefore is now the Patron Saint of the BBC.

At the words "BBC", all may bow.

Stephen Frybot: Very good, Rory! You can have some points.

The Electronic Memory of Rory Bremner: Yeah, fat lot of good they'll do me, living on this slice of germanium.

Stephen Frybot: No, this really is interesting. And, after 1000 years, it's actually the first true thing about religion I've explained on this programme. No, the "World Day Of Care for Creation" was originally an attempt by the Catholic Church to take over "Earth Hour". In those days, the more-comfortable people of the Earth used to live in an awful feeling of sinfulness about the way they flew around in planes, drove cars and polluted the atmosphere in making their consumer goods. So to enjoy  guilt, they used to sit in the dark once a year and pretend they were helping. The Catholic Church saw all that guilt and, naturally, wanted a slice. So they invented the "World Day of Care for Creation" so they could try and pretend it was theirs all along. And, being really good at guilt, they got away with it.

Jimmy Carr's Robotic Teeth: And did they stop all the pollution? 

Stephen Frybot: No, they got the Chinese to do that instead.

Token Female Robot: And Jesus wasn't born on Earth Hour? 

Stephen Frybot: Indeed he wasn't. That was Mithras. And so, as Russell Brand's Immortal Ego said, as it ascended unto its Palace on the Moon, "Vanity, vanity - all is vanity." Goodnight. 

RT for Fav, Fav for RT

One of the favourite tricks of Twitter's rabble-rousers - sorry - opinion-formers is this kind of thing.

"Who is the better theologian?  RT for Moltman; Fav for Barth."

It looks like a kind-of-valid survey. You can see how many people have RTed and how many faved, instantly. It's a kind of instant democracy of the Internet, innit?

It's not, of course. It's a con. And the way it's a con comes down to one of Twitter's main functions, to echo our own views back to us from the right type of people.

See, if I'm a big Barth fan, and Hnaef tweets this into my time line, obviously I'm gonna Fav it. I mean. I am a free human with God-given thumbs. Of course I shall use the right to press the Fav icon.

But who sees that Fav? Not my followers who don't follow Hnaef. Not unless they follow me more closely than, frankly, I already do.

But if I RT it - all my followers will see it. And if they agree, they can RT it too. And all their followers will see it.

But if they don't agree with me, and Fav it - they're a dead end.

And because the sort of people who follow me are likely to have the same view of the great Moltman/Barth debate as me - then if we're on the RT side our RTs will also spread like a virus.

But if we're on the Fav side - nobody will ever know.

So it's a deliberate - or possibly accidental - form of social engineering in the great echo chamber of social media. Guaranteed to way the results the way you like - unless you are too dim to make the answer you want the RT.

I wouldn't want to ban these unbalanced straw polls. I'd just like to expand them. "RT for Barth. Fav for Moltman. Unfollow if you think this a piece of unbalanced, pointless groupthink and confirmation bias in an echo chamber.

Wouldn't see so many of these polls then.

They'd be over 140 characters, for a start.

Scottish GMO Ban - an Expert Writes

Genetic Engineering gone wild

As news breaks that Scotland is going to ban genetically modified plants, we are delighted to have the insight of Scottish landowner and expert in traditional farming methods, Lord Summerisle.

"The ban on genetically modified crops in Scotland is an enlightened approach to the problems of food production in a world that is becoming increasingly concerned about the environment. We have seen the damage that can be caused by genetically modified plants, especially in the case of triffids. Are mobile carnivorous plants the sort of things we want wandering around the Scottish countryside, consuming the inhabitants? The case is unanswerable.

"PC Howie put his Heart and Soul into our Apples"

The way to assure the integrity of Scottish food and drink is to employ the rigorously traditional methods of farming that have been used in the Scottish countryside since time immemorial. Which is why I will be pressing the Scottish Government to roll-out our pilot scheme of burning sacrificial victims inside Wicker Men across the nation. We have proven results, and no need to resort to dangerous, untested "science."

In other areas, we can see how the loss of traditional methods have caused problems in farming and wildlife. Take bees, for example. They have been hit by neonicotinoid chemicals, and changes in farming practice for sure. But what has surely been most responsible for the decline in honey bees is that nobody ever goes out to the hive to tell them when a member of the family has died. This is just asking for hive collapse.

And we have strong evidential proof that hanging stones with holes in them up in barns, in no ways protects tractors from night hags. This is another area where so-called progress is actually making matters worse. Who is speaking up for the tractors, being chased across the fields by evil witches all night? And no modern technology seems to be available to protect them.

I've been more concerned for my position in the community
since they all voted SNP at the General Election.

I would not like your readers to think that natural methods of farming are easy and fool-proof, however. Although we have additional politicians since devolution - thus increasing the number of "kings" and "fools" available to us - we are reaching the point where the shortage of virgins is at a critical state. Dancing naked is no longer a low-risk activity, since the police all started looking out for the "Naked Rambler".  And we are facing increasing costs - in order to comply with reductions in CO2 limits, we are looking at carbon sequestration for Wicker Man burning.  In short, in order for organic, traditional, non-intensive farming, sustained through human sacrifice to thrive in the Western Isles, what we need above all else is a decent Government grant.

What about it, Nicola? I've backed up your silly ban. Give us a subsidy."

---

Stolen with gratitude from an original tweet by Robin Ince. 

Nicholas Cage was not harmed in the making of this blog post. Though his reputation was by his appearance in that ridiculous remake.

"Triffid" by John Wyndham, Assumed fair use as a low res image to illustrate this article.

The Pilgrim People of God Sometimes Need a Nap

Elijah went a day’s journey into the wilderness, and came and sat down under a solitary broom tree. He asked that he might die: ‘It is enough; now, O LORD, take away my life, for I am no better than my ancestors.’ Then he lay down under the broom tree and fell asleep. Suddenly an angel touched him and said to him, ‘Get up and eat.’ He looked, and there at his head was a cake baked on hot stones, and a jar of water. He ate and drank, and lay down again. The angel of the LORD came a second time, touched him, and said, ‘Get up and eat, otherwise the journey will be too much for you.’ He got up, and ate and drank; then he went in the strength of that food forty days and forty nights to Horeb the mount of God. (1 Kings 19:4-8) 

Elijah is the prophetic superstar. He dried up the heavens, brought a boy back to life, beat the prophets of Baal in a sacrificing competition. He always wins. But he gets wind that Ahab and Jezebel are after his blood - unsurprisingly, as he's just had all their prophets killed - and he runs.

He runs into the wilderness, and he sits down. And he's had enough. And he wants to die.

There's a phenomenon best described as the Sunday Afternoon Clergy crash. It happens to ministers who've taken services on a Sunday morning.

We can describe it in a series of stages, like the effects of the Scarlet Pimpernel's poison in Black Adder III. Not all are compulsory every time, but go with it for a minute. The first you could describe as mild elation. The minister is still flooded with excitement from the services. Or at least you hope she or he is. If they've just come out the same as they started, then goodness knows what the morning's worship has done for the rest of you.

The second stage is desolation. The minister realises that they've missed a few pages while explaining the family life of the early Assyrians.  Or that they forgot to ask old Harold how his gout is this week - and if you don't ask Harold how his gout is in any particular week, he writes letters to the Church Times bemoaning the laxity of modern day ministry and how, in Harold's day, that nice Reverend George Herbert used to be round to see him every day at 9.15 precisely. Until George died of exhaustion.

The third stage - if they've had dinner, or a couple of glasses of wine, or just been up very early tidying up a sermon - is sleep. The minister will have a nice few hours of kip. And wake up convinced they're late for evening service.

And you could put all sorts of spiritual interpretations on these three stages. Or you could figure it's all down to physiology. The leading of the service - especially if preaching - gives an adrenalin rush. And then as it rushes in, what you've actually got is a form of exhaustion.

And that looks like Elijah here. He's given the performance of his life. He's taken everybody on and won. God has heard his prayer. And now - and now he's knackered. And maybe the biggest highs bring the biggest lows. Maybe that's why pop singers so often fall prey to drink and drugs - to extend the fun past when the natural high has gone. Maybe that's the risk some sports people have to cope with when the days of trophies have gone. And, as my friend Archimandrite Simon put it, even on a really bad Sunday most of us don't have to deal with people - even royal people - trying to kill us. No wonder he's down.

But if what happens to Elijah in his crash is natural, the way God meets him is both natural and divine. Elijah's out in the desert. He's desolate. "It is enough; now, O LORD, take away my life, for I am no better than my ancestors." He's shattered, and with the tiredness come the doubts - has he been good enough? What good is he now? And he passes into sleep.

He wakes and there's an angel, bringing him bread in the desert. Where's Elijah heard that before? He's being reminded - if he's no better than his ancestors, those are the ancestors that God met in the desert, and gave bread to. Elijah is enacting the wanderings of Moses and the Israelites in the desert - including the complaining! - all on his own. And he really does think he's on his own, as we find out later. Maybe that's another thing bearing down on him - the thought that the whole of faith to God depends on him - and he knows how weak he is himself. Elijah eats, and drinks. And goes back to sleep.

And when he's eaten and drunk again, he's ready to go - for forty days. Another reminder of the Children of Israel. And he's going to go to Mount Horeb, where Moses received the 10 commandments. And he's going - though he doesn't know it yet - to get another vision of God.

The temptation to do too much - the urge to get the kick of delivering something, of making a connection, giving a great sermon, writing a cracking blog post that makes the papers - that's so deep in the human soul. Not just in prophets, pop stars and local church ministers.

The worker who gets a pat on the head for working late one night - so it becomes a habit. The quiet words of praise from the boss, because you're there on Saturday - even though you could have had it sorted Friday if you'd been organised.

The urge always to be seen to be doing. The people I've known shattered, because "I've been in back-to-back meetings all day". They're always the same people who it turns out haven't got any actual work done - no thinking, no planning, no programming, whatever - because they've been in "back-to-backs". The scary thing that I've just used that term, and some people think that's a good thing. They're scared, I suppose, of blank spaces in the calendar. If you're not at a meeting - how can you be genuinely working?

And then the late nights, the early mornings, the siren call of the blackberry when you are just about to go to bed at half past 11. And so you fire off an email, to prove you're keen.

And then get one back, 30 seconds later.

And then, whether Christians work for money or not, they manage to fill up all their spare time as well. With things that are valuable, don't get me wrong. Or sometimes with meetings that may - or may not - have meaning. And then of course there's services. And sometimes, if you work really hard at Church meetings and church activities, you may never see your family, or your non-Christian friends. What's the matter with us? Are we scared that if we had a whole day with nothing to do we might start to wonder what we're up to? Do we need every minute filled with something?

Elijah's just had a great experience. And now he's shattered, and down. And, for a moment there, he wants it all to end. And he gets a rest - one sleep, good food that he didn't have to cook himself, another sleep, more food. And he's ready to go.

He's had a Sabbath. He's been met in need, by God. His immediate needs weren't actually spiritual - though it would have been easy to turn them that way, and he tried. He needed food and drink and sleep. He needs to look after himself. He needs the time to rest. When he gets to Horeb - then he can deal with the proper spiritual things. There's time for that. But, for now, what he really needed was a break.

There's a reason why God gave a Sabbath. We all need a break. And we don't need to fill that break with services, church stuff, meetings. In fact, if that's what your Sunday looks like, you probably need another Sabbath. We need a day to rest. To take our brains off the hook. To do some gardening, ride a bike, read a book - even one that's not improving. To watch the telly or even - more than we like to think perhaps - to sleep. If I fall asleep in the day, or have a lie-in because I'm tired, I can feel annoyed with myself for wasting the time. Maybe we need to know that there's a balance where sometimes a bit of extra rest is exactly what you need,

So Elijah goes on, and goes on to be seriously picked up at Horeb, and goes on to fulfil the rest of his calling. But he knows now that God's love and care for him don't depend on what he does. God has met him and cared for him in his tiredness, in his crash, in his hopelessness. And God has shown himself faithful regardless.

God gives us spiritual bread - the bread first given on a cross on a hill. The bread that the manna in the desert and the cake given to Elijah are just shadows of. And it means we grow, and it means we live and it means that, bit by bit, we are being made like the One who is that bread. And God gives us rest to go alongside, not to be replaced as if receiving the bread makes us supercharged. To give us time to contemplate, to think - but also just to stop.

If we've given ourselves in work or ministry, crashes are normal for all of us. And if you're tired, take care of yourself. If you've forgotten to care for yourself or family, then step back and remember what's important. If you're rushing around the whole time, then set yourself some time to stop. And if you can't stand the site of white space on your calendar - then fill one whole day with the word "garden" or "walk" or, if you're that kind of extravert, "friends." If Elijah needed it - and he was a great prophet - then so do you. And in the space, the quiet, the peace and the rest - God will be with you, caring for you. God likes you to take time off. God invented the idea.

The Cult of the 1980s

I'm all in favour of these inter-faith meetings. But this was one of the oddest.

The Cult of the 1980s is a small group, dedicated to the belief that we can find salvation by releasing ourselves from the mundaneness of the everyday. We can do this by adopting New Romantic clothing and make-up, imagining we are thereby freed from death and decay.

The members of the Cult of the the 1980s believe in a great celestial intelligence, the truth behind all music, the primordial song who is known as the "Sky Recital". It's a lovely idea, that behind all the ways and woes of this universe is an eternal song, don't you think?

Their written scriptures are short, as their holy works are all records by Spandau Ballet, Visage and a bit of early Kylie. But they tell of the eternal love and protection of the "Sky Recital."

They tell how the Prince Charming of the Cult of the 80s fought his way past a shimmering pink sea - along an Echo Beach where he met a bull dozer and a deep-voiced clown. He fought off a Flock of Seagulls, and found his way to Africa. To his companion, Toto, he expressed his exhaustion - "we're like sugar mice in the rain, but nothing's gonna stop us now." Eventually he stopped. He knew he was in the right place when he saw the whole of the moon. The people of that place told him, "we built this city on rock and roll."

And he cried out to the "Sky Recital", saying - "I am China in your hand. If there are secrets that only Toto and I can hear, then our lips are sealed. If there is anything of which you say, "it's a sin", then I will give it up. But light in me an Eternal Flame, and tell me that we can live for the day when Heaven is a Place on Earth. In short - hold me now, and tell me you're True"

The worship group

And the "Sky Recital" responded in faithfulness and assurance.

"Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down
Never gonna run around and desert you
Never gonna make you cry, never gonna say goodbye
Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you."

Running on Fumes

Being the geeky type, Burton got very excited about this (Japanese) invention. A cycle lock that only unlocks if you pass a breath test, and texts a sober friend if you fail. Though I have no idea how it knows which of your friends are sober. Monitors their Twitter feeds,  I suppose.

Being nothing if not stupid, Burton then took the gadget and his bike off to the pub in Bedford for their regular "First Friday of the Week" drink.  He locked the bike up outside and went in to have a thoroughly miserable evening. Burton says he now knows why he likes a beer when he's with his friends. He'd thought it was because it meant he could relax and be more sociable. Turns out it's because all his mates are really boring, and he notices when he's sober.

Boring but childish enough to keep running outside and blowing into his bike lock. Hnaef was getting really annoyed with the stream of "help":messages he received during Filling up of Beakers.

But the real disaster was, after a thoroughly dispiriting evening, when Burton went to retrieve his bike. That lock's not big. And to clamp the bike to the pub's drainpipe meant the mouthpiece was at a funny angle. And.....

Did you know that under Bedford byelaws you can be arrested on suspicion of carrying our an obscene act with a bicycle?

Being Bedford, by the time Burton got back to his bike, somebody had stolen the pub. So at least he was able to ride the bike without any more trouble.  But as Burton said, if the thief had been sober, they could have had the bike as well.

The Passing of Local

The loss of George Cole takes me back to the 80s. A time when, in the media and huge all at the same time, we had Minder,  Only Fools, and Eastenders. Of course, the latter was fantasy while the others were more real-life. But there was a sense of passing glory about them. The Cockney races were already swarming to the Home Counties and South Midlands. We can see these shows as elegies.

Today only Eastenders remains, a Cockney bubble (not rhyming slang) in a changed East London.

Before and just when Only Fools and Minder were kicking off, we had strong comedies with local roots - the Likely Lads in the North East, the Liver Birds and Bread in Liverpool, Summer Wine in Yorkshire. These were strong in attachment to their locations, even if the studio filming was often done in London. Rab C Nesbitt was once shown at a foreign TV festival with subtitles. English ones.

But today that all feels a bit lost. The world of media is dominated by posh kids with accents wiped out by university. We have sit coms about the BBC. I'm sure it's a giant media and political plot to wipe out our regionalism - to make us homogeneous UK-ites, incapable of laughing with or at each other any more. Unable to identify with place - because if we had a sense of place we'd resist the schemes to tear up communities and build plate glass over everything.

So I regret the loss of regional. Norman Tebbit's dad may have had a bike, but you can only do local on a bike - not nip up to a different part of the country, where the offices, the houses, the people food, pubs, beer and shops are all the same

Ah, well. Looks like it's Bedfordshire Clangers followed by Dunstable Doughnuts for lunch.

Lament on the Passing of George Cole

Archdruid: All wight?

All: Leave it 'art.

Archdruid: We gather to lady and gent¹.

All: Arfur Daley is brarn bread².

Archdruid: No longer givin' it that with the bunny³.

All: No more dodgy geezers in shabby whistles⁴.

Archdruid: The lock-up is locked forever.

All: He goes to look for the nice little earners of eternity.

Archdruid: Let us retreat to the rub-a-dub⁵.

All: Or the Winchester Club.

Archdruid: Remember that hooky⁶ hairdryers are but for the day.

All: And a Rubber Gregory⁷ is not all that.

Archdruid: And so from the descending of the apples to the rising up of the pears⁸

All: We will remember him.

George Cole: 'ere, 'ang on - I was a veteran actor in film and TV, you know. I wasn't just the one character. You can't stereotype me.

All: All wight, Arfur. We believe yer.

Archdruid: Farsands wootn't.

---

1 Lament (Liturgical Rhyming Slang)
2 Dead
3. Bunny Rabbit/Rabbit + Pork = Talk
4. Oh, forget it.
5. No, you're just making this up now.  Nobody ever said this outside a TV studio.
6. Isn't that Only Fools?
7. Peck? Really? Did anyone ever say that? Really?
8. This is ridiculous.