Maybe...

We have a women's relaxation retreat for church this weekend.

Okay, so the majority of women think they are going to a QUILTING and relaxation retreat.

I'm not.

I do have, however, a project to do and have got all the bits and pieces together.  Including the fact that my red and black inks arrived from Pencraft in Adelaide this week in plenty of time for the weekend.  They are wonderful and have great service - even suggesting a substitution for what I wanted when my first choice was not in stock and might not have made it in time.

I'm planning on taking some photos, but I won't necessarily have internet connection.

Watch this space...

And the chance that any of the quilters are likely to want to work next to me and my red and black ink?

... Good thing too!  I'd hate my ink to get all spoiled by contact with fabric.

It's a good thing I don't live in Woolloomooloo

Had a fax today from a minister in Papua New Guinea who is a PNG national who my local church sponsored through ministerial education.

He's now posted in a remote village in the southern highlands, but from time to time we trade letters/faxes about life and what's going on for each of our families.

He and his wife have just had a new baby boy, and they've named him after the town in which I live.

How much sense does the title of this post make? No?

Desperate Measures

There are times in a preacher's life where there don't seem to be any hymns that go where you want to go.

And some of us preach in smaller churches where there is a limit on the repertoire of the congregation and/or musicians available.

And although it is possible to select some rousing hymns that everyone knows that have nothing whatsoever to do with the selected theme, it is really very nice to have at least one that deals with where you're going.

So, in desperation, I started penning my own lyrics with some assistance from the lovely and talented Givinya who ironed out a dodgy line for me and told me that it was okay to have an anacrusis if I needed it.

So we'll be singing this on Sunday (to the tune Cross of Jesus):

Follow me! Our Christ to Philip

in that distant Galilee.

Instantly he went with Jesus.

What an honour: Called was he.

Follow me! Our Saviour calls us

As he calls, so we obey.

Walking into love and learning,

faith in trusting his new day.

Come and See! So Philip phrased it

When Nathanael scoffed his doubts

Zeal for law, tradition, status -

Jesus’ wisdom found him out.

Come and See! So someone asked us

Child or parent, spouse or friend

Came to Jesus: True love, mercy,

Companionship that never ends.

Come and See! An invitation

From our lives to those we know.

Making certain we don’t veil the

King of Heav’n seen here below.

Of course, while Givinya is very good and very helpful in the improvement of verses, her strength is rhyming and rhythmic comedy. So she dash off a couple of alternative versions of the third verse, because I was having great trouble getting it to work.

An alternative version

Come and See! So Philip phrased it

when Nathanael scoffed his doubts

zeal for law, tradition, status

proved Nathanael was a lout.

The Yorkshire version

Come and See! So Philip phrased it

when Nathanael scoffed his doubts

zeal for law, tradition, status

Nathanael's questions came to nowt.

The Irish version (and my personal favourite)

Come and See! So Philip phrased it

when Nathanael scoffed his doubts

So Nat and Phil, they filled their tankards,

Made a toast, and downed their stout.

The IT version

Come and See! So Philip phrased it

when Nathanael scoffed his doubts

Nat picked up his bag and laptop;

Went to check the Saviour out.

And how many of these alternatives are likely to be sung in church this coming Sunday (except in my head)?

...precisely

Just for professional interest

Every now and then I go to other churches or listen to podcasts just to see how other people go about delivering a sermon.

I have just listened to 45 mins (and finally lost ability to continue to listen) of one from a young and vibrant church down in the "big smoke". I thought I might learn a thing or two about being relevant and communicating to younger audiences in the modern world.

It seems that it is perfectly natural to introduce your main point at least 35 mins into your sermon.

It seems that it is perfectly okay to bring in the scripture you want to focus on after 45 mins.

I also need to cultivate a whiny voice that can be raised continually until I reach a crescendo every 10 mins or so, possibly to make certain my audience are still with me.

Oh, and "if you agree with me, say YES!" falls quite flat on the podcast when there is no microphone for the congregation. In fact, if you need to stir them up, it's probably not genuine response anyway.

I reckon in the 45 mins I listened to there was about 10 mins of material, the rest was just waffle. And there could have been quite a bit to come, given the fact he'd just got his Bible out.

Now, don't get me wrong. I've listened to sermons that were over the 30 min mark and I was sad that they finished ("where did the time GO?"), but this guy wasn't one of them. Unfortunately I've heard plenty more in the same style.

I realise, too, that there are people who have a 10 minute message that seem like an hour.

I guess I try to have a solid structure, solid research behind it, and make the presentation as interesting as I can. There's also much to be said for allowing the good ol' Holy Spirit to have a chance at moving you during both preparation and presentation. but I generally try to aim for about 6 hours preparation for a 15 minute talk, rather than the opposite.

Once I was presenting a professional seminar at a series of development courses and surprised one of the organisers by saying, "I generally try to stop talking when I've said everything that has to be said."

Chance that I'm going to email that pastor with some constructive criticism?

...no ... I'm way too passive aggressive for that!

Sometimes being a Pastor isn't all it's cracked up to be...

Or, at least, there are those who think I should be proof against cracking up.

I was at a service yesterday for the commissioning of a new pastor in a church not so very far away.

I had been invited to preach, which was an honour and a privilege, but does make one rather conspicuous when one sees an unfortunate typo during one of the hymns.

We were "Lifting high the cross" gustily and "praising his sacred name". I had not realised that among all the titles to which Jesus is entitled is included "the Sod of God".

Don't you hate how spelling checkers only highlight typos that are not real words in themselves?

How much success did I have in keeping a straight face?

And how much help was my Beloved at this point?

The difference of fifteen.

This year I have been teaching a grade 2 Religious Instruction class.

Last year I took my first go at RI and had a grade 2 class. I decided to stick with grade 2 because I'd made so many mistakes that I MUST be able to do a better job this year.

Last year my RI class finished at about 23 students (although it started at about 20 - there was some accumulation during the year).

This year the school changed from an opt-out system (you have to write a letter saying that you don't want your child taught RI), to an opt-in system (where you have to write a letter saying that you do want your child taught RI). This meant a bit of a drop in numbers. You'd think my class would have been smaller.

But no, because they needed somewhere to put all the students who weren't doing RI, they took the smallest two classes, joined them together and gave them to me.

I started the year with 29 students.

I am not, and never have been a teacher.

It was hard.

Then I acquired an extra couple of students.

I recorded my plea in church, and found a willing and able helper to assist with crowd control.

Then we acquired a couple of extra students.

I started planning a 20 minute lesson, knowing that the first 10 minutes of the half-hour lesson would be taken up with getting chairs from next door for the extras. I also had to leave out anything exciting because there simply wasn't enough room in the classroom for movement of any kind.

I was struggling. Seriously struggling. And while I've always found taking RI hard, I wasn't able to make the individual connection with students that makes it rewarding.

One of the other teachers offered me her class for second semester. Then we found that we now had 35 students, so I took her up on it.

Today I had 20 grade three students (four from my class last year).

The classroom is big enough.

There is no-one coming from next door so that I have to find chairs.

They are a whole heap more capable in reading and puzzles and understanding instructions, and we can do fun games again.

I can't believe the difference made by fifteen.

P.S. The classroom teacher of my original class complained, they've now taken five students out of my old class to go to the other grade 2 class, and two students have changed schools. And the chance that would have happened if I hadn't changed classes? Yep.

Greek Geek

So last week I would have went, saw, and conquered, but as that is more commonly rendered in Latin, it wouldn't really be appropriate to my trip.

I went on a residential school for New Testament Greek in our nation's capital.

Three days of intense language learning, sandwiched between travel. It was really good (very intense, very full, very mind-filling and not always easy - but good). The preparation work I'd done was sufficient to keep me in the same ball park as the lecturer, which enabled me to get much more out of it than if I'd been struggling with how to sound out Greek letters and a total incapability to understand grammatical case (thanks, Education Queensland).

I was pretty bushed by the time I got home at 8.30 Saturday evening, then had to preach Sunday morning, then go to a Seminar in a neighbouring town, followed by a meeting with my supervisor and a hospital visit, rushed Officeworks trip and home in time for music group.

Then madly preparing for my RI class Tuesday lunchtime.

Then the taking of the class (I have 28 grade 2s - that is WAY too many for a non-teacher to keep under control all at once), followed by child protection seminar.

Thankfully today had nothing down in my diary until Ministry Team meeting late this afternoon. I slept reasonably well secure in the knowledge that I didn't really have to get up and prepare for anything. I could get some essential housework done, get out tax stuff together and make a few phonecalls to organise some things.

The chance I appreciated the 8.05am phone call from the church wondering whether I was coming for the Pastoral Carers meeting? (which I chair - oops)

After today I think I've confirmed everyone's suspicions that I'm a bit air-headed...

It has been one of those days.

7.30am - Prayer breakfast

8.45am - Get home and take a picture as a background for our church's new website banner (for September - yep, right in time for the new month). Download it. Put the necessary writing on it. Get onto the admin site and upload the image. Realise that it has a typo. Not an important one, or anything. Just the name of the town the church is located in.

10.20am - Frustrated at not getting the website update finished, but take the LBD to the vet to get his dressing changed and for the vet to make sure that everything is looking good. It is, he's walking on it, but doesn't like the sticky bandage coming off. Pushes against me so hard that his good back leg falls off the table and he tries to take all his weight on the bad one.

10.55am - Put dog in the laundry because I have to go out soon. Madly work on the computer to fix the typo, re-upload September's website banner and fix it. Try to insert a new news article, that doesn't end up showing on the public site, but I have to go out again...

11.30am - Meeting with one of our music ladies about a potential solo for Sunday. Words of song are perfect for the service. Can't get onto Sunday's organist. Have a bit of a discussion about deep theological stuff. Get fuel, pick up the hospital pastoral care phone on the way home.

12.45pm - Get home, put some soup in the microwave to defrost. Check dog. He has managed to eat or in other ways get rid of half his bandage. Ring vet. I can bring him straight down. Great.

1pm - try to lift resisting dog out of the back of the car. Drag him into the vet. Vet fixes new bandage. Buy pigs ears to try to keep the LBD entertained while I'm gone.

1.15pm - Put soup on to reheat. Find the LBDs bucket-collar in the back of the top shelf of the cupboard so that he can't eat his bandage. Gather materials for 2pm meeting, remembering the letter I have to post, and the CD to leave for someone at the office.

1.30pm - eat lunch quickly. Burn tongue.

1.45pm - Grab dog. Put on bucket collar, grab pig ear in other hand, then pick up the dog to carry him downstairs to the laundry. Try to push him into the laundry, despite his unwillingness and the fact that the bucket collar gets stuck on the door, which can't open fully because he's rearranged all his bedding. Run upstairs and grab handbag and stuff I need.

1.50pm - Realise that my car/house keys are not in my handbag. They are not on my desk. They are not in the kitchen. They are not in the bedroom. Put everything down and check each of these places three times. Stop and think about what I did when I first got home. Check the shelves in the cupboard where the bucket-collar was. Grab keys. Grab stuff.

2.03pm - Apologise for being late to the meeting. Have meeting to organise Sunday's service. Find out that our organist is away and is not due back til the end of the week. Scrap potential solo.

3.30pm - pack up stuff after meeting. Decide to have a quick run-through of a new song for Sunday (to be accompanied by guitar). Realise that I've lost the CD I had to leave in the office for someone to pick up. Go through all the stuff I have with me. It isn't there. Check the car, my path between the car and the church hall, the office and the meeting room three times each.

3.40pm - Decide that I really need to get home to my Little Black Dog.

3.47pm - Find CD and letter I was going to post on my desk. Ring the lady who was going to pick up the CD. Get her husband. She's just left for the church. Leave message. Ring church. Leave message.

Just now - get new email with the minutes of last week's meeting to plan the Spring Fair. Realise that I should have been there and wasn't because it had entirely slipped my mind.

What amount of respect am I going to have from my church after today's little effort?

... Approximately None!

A Story Based on Luke 14:7-11

And the chance that I'll spend as much time on the actual "grown up" sermon?

... Approximately None!

Eat Your Heart Out Maid Marion

Okay, so I don't want to perpetuate the popular image of Maid Marion from a certain television show that I only used to watch to drool over Guy of Gisbourne*, but will ever sacrifice tradition to a reasonably catchy title.

And I did sort of get a nick-name from some of the blokes at the regional youth and family camp that makes the reference relevant.

I did Archery as an elective at the camp.

Lots of the blokes brought their children down, but I ended up being the only adult woman who had chosen this particular elective when many of the others were up at the main hall making craft. Others attended a discussion group, and a few were off try to get babies down for a little sleep.

I'm a bit of a freak.

I was idly sitting awaiting the start of proceeding when I recognised Peanut from over at "Graze". Then I recognised her big brother and dad, who had all come out for the day. I should not have been surprised because I know they go to one of the churches that was coming.

Having referred to Peanut by her given name, and having been corrected by dad, I began to wonder if he really wanted me to introduce him at lunchtime as "Yummy Hubby"? I should have asked.

But didn't.

He's a policeman. I didn't want to get him off-side.

I caught up with Crazy Sister who brought out the kids on Sunday. Got to see her new house with the huge kitchen and everything on the way home! (Seriously envious of the kitchen. And the beautiful glossy white architraves and skirting boards - but not of the red dirt. Red dirt goes everywhere!)

But thanks to Yummy Hubby who took the photos and to Crazy Sister who emailed them, I can share these with you. Yummy Hubby takes pretty impressive photos, and I love that my double chin is hidden by the angle. I should employ him as my personal photographer.

Nice instructor who was helping with a technique for drawing back that would not involve the sort of injury to which, as the only adult female, I was the only one susceptible.

Then he also helped with release technique that added some more POWER to my arrows (possibly helped by the fact I was no longer worried about the chance of injury). Then I no longer needed to aim higher than I wanted to hit.

How many of my arrows struck gold?

... You think you're so smart - but as a matter of fact I managed to be the first one (apart from the instructor) to hit gold, but also got another couple later on. Hence spending the next 24 hours being referred to as Maid Marion by one of the blokes.

It appears that archery is a sport that requires no ability to catch, throw, hit moving projectiles with an implement, run, be flexible or have any sort of cardio-vascular fitness. I should take it up.

And how many of my arrows missed the target entirely?
... Approximately None




* Was that bad casting or what?! Aren't you supposed to like Robin Hood? And not be relieved when the seriously irritating maid Marion finally can't be irritating anymore?

What? You mean I'm supposed to have value for worth of character? Oh. Yes, I suppose you're right. I mean, of course you are.

You know your week is off to a brilliant start when...

You offer to check the church Post Office Box while you're there to buy stamps for a whole heap of kids group invitations. So the office lady hands over her key.

You get to the post office, only to remember that you should have asked what the Post Office Box number is, because you can't remember.

You ring the church office to check, sound like a total idiot, but manage to get the mail. Then you go inside to buy stamps and remember that the 40-odd letters you are holding ALL have the church's return address printed on them.

How brilliant is my week looking?

... hmmmpf

Finding my own level

I've always been a bit of a klutz.

I would have been excellent at sport if only I could throw a ball, catch a ball, run or hit a moving object with any sort of implement.

Having a modicum of balance and flexibility may also have assisted.

Oh, and some cardio-vascular fitness.

As you can see, I was not ever the first person picked on teams at school. And I fear I wasn't a nice person at all because I was always glad that at least I wasn't the last one picked. There was always a very real possibility that I would be, but the team who started picking at least chose me over the very last one left that the other team had to have. *sigh* I am not a nice person sometimes. Particularly when I was in high school.

Yesterday I felt I found my level.

I was throwing balls to a group of 3-5 year olds.

Nice light plastic balls that don't hurt.

Balls that were big enough to catch and hold.

Thrown gently in an arc.

Over a distance of about 1.5 - 2.0 metres.

When my reach is about three times theirs.

And they just expected that I would be able to catch them. There was no judgement. No waiting on me to fail. It was the best time I've ever had that involved round objects in motion.

But the chance that I managed to catch two balls at once when they came at me unexpectedly?

... You guessed it!!!

It's a Good Thing I Didn't End Up a Teenage Mother

At lunchtime I will be off to give a religious education lesson to my class of little grade twos.

It quite often ends up as mayhem and I'm not certain what they are actually learning, but they are so enthusiastic and I love them all.

When I was in high school I really wanted to give my hypothetical children distinctive names. I thought it might be nice to use the less popular spellings for traditional names. (This is probably due to the sheer numbers of Jennifers in my classes growing up.)

In more recent years I have repented of that desire.

There are so many variants.

Young Cayleb informed me at the beginning of this term that I spelled his name incorrectly on the front of his book. I had written 'Caleb'. I had written my list with it spelled the way he spelled it, but my brain must have done an automatic spell-check while I wasn't paying attention.

So now there are a whole generation of kids who are going to have to spell their names every single time someone is writing it down.

How much do I wish I was them?

... Approximately None!

Indecision...

I am not good at making decisions.

I was awake for a couple of hours last night second-guessing my misguided desire to do more study.

I have always wanted to do more God-related study. I don't know if I really should say "more" because I've really done very little, but I've always thought when I hear of someone studying Theology, "you are so lucky!".

I've finally managed to separate studying theology and becoming a minister in my mind, which means that I can study without feeling guilty if I don't actually do anything with it. I know that I work as a Pastor (which may mean Minister to some of you anyway), but my role has very set boundaries and I'm qualified for the parts of the pastoral work that are in my job description. But I'm feeling that I need more knowledge and some different perspectives to be better at this role, even if I never want to do all the stuff that a regular minister does.

So, a Bachelor of Theology sounds like a wonderful idea and I love the sound of some of the units on offer. BUT 24 subjects is a big committment. I don't see how I could fit more than one subject at a time into my life without neglecting my Beloved, my work, or the state of cleanliness in my abode. This means that for the next 12 years I lose my nights and weekends. Hang on, I already lose nights and weekends in my work. How is that going to work?!

I could knock it off in 6 years if I could manage 2 subjects at a time. But that's a huge comittment of time over a significant period. I don't know how people manage it.

But I'd love to have the opportunity to study.

And the Federal Government will help fund the subjects if I do them as part of a course, rather than picking off one-off subjects. That's very nice of them.

But it is a very long time comittment. I will miss much television. Oh, that's right, there's very little worth watching on it anyway, so maybe not really a sacrifice.

But I want to learn more.

But I like having time to spend hanging out with my Beloved.

But there's some really good units that sound interesting.

But there are weeks when I entirely lose my drive, or I get a cold and don't feel like doing anything much.

And I need to make a decision this weekend if I want to do a subject this coming semester.

The chance that I'm certain about what I should do?

... Approximately None!

Nothing to see here, people!

I had a plan.

I've been driving to a little town 25 minutes up the road for an early morning prayer meeting each day this week.

The scenery of paddock and farmsteads, broken down sheds and forested hills, overcast skies and dramatic spot-lighting has been breath-takingly beautiful and has been restoring my soul after some really busy days.

I decided that this morning I'd take my camera and take some shots to share with all my bloggy buddies. And it was absolutely gorgeous this morning.

Unfortunately I fell back to sleep after my Beloved went to the shower. So instead of taking the 15 minutes to surface from deep sleep, then get going, I woke with a start 30 minutes after I should have been vertical, knowing I had to rush to be gone.

So how much time did I have to take photos on the way?

... Approximately None. But it was beautiful! I promise!

Loud and inappropriate laughter.

I was at a christmas gathering when one of my ecumenical colleagues turned to her boss and asked, "Have you checked out the new coffee shop in town yet?"

He (known for his liking for certain stimulants most often found at such a venue) replied that he had not.

She then responded, "Oh, I thought you would have been in like a shot", whereupon I dissolved into giggles and she looked at me, perplexed.

It lost a lot in the explanation, but still gives me the giggles. Sadly, I like a good pun, "Thank you, Bernard."*

The chances that I'm likely to be invited to anything at the local Anglican church for a while?

... approximately nun.


*Reference to the BBC TV series "Yes, Minister". Bernard was known for his pedantic attention to unmixing metaphors, explaining obscure Classical allusions, and finding the most literal meaning of any given phrase. Whereupon either Sir Humphrey or the Minister would repressively intone, "Thank you, Bernard", and change the subject. He is arguably best known for his 'helpful' suggestion of an advertising slogan for the British Civil Service - "Red Tape is Fun!". I've always wanted a shirt with that slogan and his caricature on it. Sadly, I've never seen one, and given that the show was produced in the '80s I doubt I will ever find one.

Fox in the Spring Fair Henhouse

It's that time of year again, when I'm madly preparing for the annual church Spring Fair. This year I'm helping on the Cake Stall as usual (remember the apron?), but also involved in making lollies for the Sweet Stall.

This is a bit of a conflict of interest, because traditionally these two stalls vie with each other for the stall that makes the most cold, hard cash. Fortunately the Plant Stall has been doing really well of recent years and has trumped both of us, so that I can't be called a traitor to the Cakes.

I got roped into the lollies because my Grandmother has always been the French Jellies maker. She turns 90 next year, so I offered to give her a hand (we've done a team effort before). As it turns out she had a bit of a turn on the weekend, and so it ended up being Mum and I, and everything has worked out well (both for Grandma and the jellies).

The other Lolly Ladies are also beginning to mature to a point where they groan about the week before the Fair, so a group of younger ladies had a tutorial earlier in the year to teach us how to do them to official quality control standards. I should mention that when I say younger, I mean that (apart from me) they were all reasonably recent retirees.

So I was asked what I wanted to make for the stall I offered to make a couple of trays of Caramel Fudge (because that's the one I really want to perfect - it's my favourite). It's only now in the making that I've realised that this is going to take much willpower on my part for there to be anything to give to the Lolly Ladies. I am, as it were, the proverbial fox set to guard the henhouse. And I consistently find myself eyeing off all the little caramel-coloured chickens.

The chances that I'm a dutiful Skinny Cow this week?

... Precisely.

Praying that your holidays are excrement...

At my church we have a weekly prayer breakfast. We cover world, national and state events; personal losses and joys; church doings and issues; and anything that relates to our town.

And so in amongst prayers for our Pacific neighbours and those from our congregations who are grieving I chose to pray for our minister and her husband, who are soon to head off for some well deserved long service leave. I prayed that they be refreshed and given the opportunity to flourish, like well-tended plants. It wasn't until I'd finished that I suddenly realised that I might have got a little too much into my analogy.

Don't you hate it when an analogy gets away from you?

You see, technically I believe I prayed that this holiday be for them like plants that are given a good dose of manure which gives them the nutrients to thrive.

Yes, I prayed that their holiday be ... er... excrement.

And what's the chance I meant it the way it came out?

... Approximately None!

And Now for Something Completely Different...

I've been a girl who has always gone to church. Initially I didn't have much choice in the matter, but eventually took on Christian faith for myself. One of the things that 35 years of church-going will do is that I know how all the stories end, and can get a bit blase about them. I also am used to some of the really odd things that Christians do at church. They are almost second nature.

I think the two of these tendencies combined resulted in the following mind wandering that happened just after Easter, but that I haven't got around to blogging about. Sorry for the in-jokes for those who don't attend a more main-stream church, or any church at all, for that matter.

Scene:
A fairly normal (if somewhat stodgy) service in my lovely home church. The reader was reading from Luke, Chapter 24, verse 36, following Jesus' resurrection, appearance and the disciples' return from Emmaus.

Reader: "Whle they were talking about this [Jesus' appearance on the road to a town called Emmaus], Jesus himself stood among them and said to them, 'Peace be with you'..."

Jen's somewhat wandering brain going into standard liturgy mode: "And the disciples responded, 'And also with you'..."

Reader continuing, thankfully in blissful ignorance of my mental journey to realms not recorded in the Bible: "...They [the disciples] were startled and terrified, and thought that they were seeing a ghost..."

Jen's brain, brought back suddenly to the actual reading, rather than standard liturgical responses: "Wow, I have been to church way too much, I wasn't expecting that. Didn't those disciples know the correct response?!"

The chance that the disciples, scared and not following the whole point of what Jesus had been trying to tell them about the fact that he would rise from death, even thought about using the standard liturgical response?

... Approximately None!

Linguini Jen

Well, I've been keeping something in my closet.

It's probably about time I 'fessed up.

It's just that it might change the way you think about me, and I'm not certain I can cope with that...

In April I was commissioned as a Pastor in my church, although I prefer "Linguini" as a title, because it is more fun to say. (Get it - Pasta/Pastor - oh, nevermind)



See, I told you that you'd think about me differently.

But I haven't actually changed at all, as evidenced by a moment at our Church Council meeting this afternoon.

I had visited with a family when their husband/father passed away last week. The funeral is tomorrow. When it came up during the meeting every connection to everyone else and every place any of the kids had ever worked was part of the discussion. This is part of belonging to a small country town, and making certain that everyone knew if it was the same "John Citizen" they knew, or Fred Citizen's Dad that was about to be buried.

I mean, it's terrible if you've mentally buried the wrong person's father. Particularly when some of the old names are around here in plague proportions. Next time you see a client and give them your condolences only to find out it was John Citizen, second cousin once removed, who died, not their Dad who also happens to be John Citizen, because he was named after the first one.

Of course, it's even worse if you see someone up the street who you mentally buried six months ago. You can't really greet them with, "Hey, great to see you, I thought you were dead!"

So in our meeting the ages of the kids came up. One of the other ladies said that one of the sons was the same age as one of her kids, thereby making him 41.

At which I said, "Well, he certainly doesn't look it, I would have said he wasn't much older than me."

Whereupon I remembered that I am actually 35. He's not that much older than me.

There was much hilarity at my expense, particularly given that my inclusion on the Church Council has probably dropped the average age of the group to about 55.

And my church is sending me to the national assembly in Sydney?

How much did they think that through?

... Approximately None!