Anyway, I can use both hands, 'cos Sarah is a bossy woman.
While I was hieroglyphing on the Bernina - I now know 500% more hieroglyphs than I knew before - imagine them done out big on a Dorset beach, visible from space - I was thinking about the effect of the riots on Barton, and whether we had any, and I remembered that we almost did, as this morning after the eucharist, we were drinking coffee in the church hall, and the bobbin lacemakers were on the other side of the room. I could see the lacemakers making gestures with their hands over their ears, and I went over to ask if they were OK, and they told me that the eucharist-goers were being too noisy and it was making it impossible to concentrate on getting the lace made. So I went over to the eucharistis and indicated that this was so, then left hurriedly to get back to My Life's Work. I don't know how it ended; perhaps there were ugly scenes involving lace pins and coffee cups. It's probably not quite in the same league as Clapham Common and so it'll never get reported; that's the problem with living in the provinces. Come on, Barton, you can do better than this!
The gospel reading was about not storing up treasures on earth where moth corrupts, and it could have added, looters loot and all that, and I hope that no clergy will have done some naff sermon based on it against valuing material things, pointing out how vulnerable they are to present events. We aren't in the mood for that kind of thing at the moment, I think. T'owd man was a lot more subtle of course and talked about having enough capital in the bank of things we say we value in order to write cheques against, like martyrs did, if I understand him rightly. They put their money where their mouth was, and their money was there first; that's me carrying on what he said, really.
Oh dear! I've left something a bit risque up there in the pile of hieroglyphs. (You are going to scroll up, aren't you?)
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