Yet again time has flashed by since my past post, and here I am at the start of a significant new era without having adequately chronicled the last seven days. Today the two of us will be joined by a friend, Matthew, who will lodge with us until the end of July. He is house-hopping, because in August he moves to stay with other friends. September? Ah, that’s when he moves even further – to Palestine to take up a post with a mission organisation specialising in education, which is his area of expertise. Not the sort of secure existence that most of us yearn for: the (at least temporary) absence of a home must be difficult. We shall do our best to make him feel welcome.
It’s been another busy week. Of course. I think I’m now prepared for our Canadian excursion, except for buying the currency, letting our card providers know where we’re going to be and checking what I need to do to stop my mobile phone from racking up a huge bill. Dot has been rushing from school to school, mainly fulfilling her DSSO obligations, and this will culminate on Saturday, when she hurtles down to Reading to take part in an education exhibition on behalf of her company, Philosophy4Children.
So our lives have often been taking different courses. Dot missed a sparsely attended DCC meeting, a walk round Norwich with Paston poets on a burning hot Sunday afternoon, a Naked in Norwich private view in St Benedict’s on Monday evening and a nine-mile Paston Walk on Tuesday. Not that she would have come on that, any more than she would have come to my three-hour session on Writing News yesterday afternoon for a Bridges creative writing group. These are people who have mental health problems but are still functioning pretty well, and it was a surprisingly enjoyable time. I did get paid adequately for it too, which is only fair considering the amount of preparation that I did. I used the “Welsh cousin rescues woman from car” story as an interview/press conference tool, and it worked nicely.
The walk on Tuesday was interesting. It was hot in Norwich, but by the time I reached Paston there was a chill in the air from a sea mist, which made walking easier, though I wasn’t really dressed for it. Fortunately I had a fleece which I donned to supplement my shorts. It was supposed to be a six-mile walk, through Edingthorpe and Bacton (via Bromholm Priory) and back along the coast to Paston, but I actually measured close to nine (partly because I was unable to find a critical track from the clifftop across a wheatfield and had to walk it back again to find out where it started – after going a longer way round in the first place. Encountered a couple and their son at Edingthorpe who used to live there but had moved to Heacham. The husband had two drawings of the church inside. Engaged me in conversation for a while (then again on the road, and again at Bacton Church), and as a result I missed the fish and chip shop at Bacton and had to be satisfied with an ice cream. Managed to fall over quite heavily in Bacton, but threw myself on to the verge and avoided serious injury – or even trivial injury, if you don’t count a graze on my arm.
The Paston poets’ meeting on Sunday (to discuss our next project) featured a drink in the Olive Tree before a walk up Elm Hill, a quick look at St Peter Hungate and a pause at St Andrew’s Hall, which was conveniently shut. Three of us (Kay and Adrian with me) then walked on to King Street, dropping in at Dragon Hall and Julian’s cell before taking in the plaque at the Music House – allegedly the oldest house in Norwich. It was preceded by lunch at church to say farewell to the Cracknells: Heather is going to be a curate in Cringleford after her ordination on Saturday. Moving occasion – Paul led the service and Heather preached. Nicholas did a final liturgy that included the children, Rhianna and Finnan.
Another big church event was Donna’s wedding to Jason in the old church building. She is a very quiet, lovely woman with four children whose former husband left her. Her friends and family, however, were pretty much all noisy, and the reception at the hall afterwards – and at Dunston Hall in the evening – proved boisterous. Other than Donna, Nicholas and Heather, we knew practically no-one at the Dunston Hall hog roast, but we sat at a table with congenial people and had a good time. Very kind of her to invite us: Dot has always been close to her after they were in a small prayer group some years ago. They will be living in Gorleston in future, so we lose another church presence in The Lathes: Donna has been making bookings for the hall, and this will pass to Cheryl, our cleaner.
Naked in Norwich was a Twenty Group exhibition to which I was invited by poet Hilary Mellon, who opened it (she booked me for Bridges too). It was (self-evidently) a collection of nude drawings, and I amused myself trying to distinguish between guests who were artists, models or simply friends. Surprises at the private view: Elvira, our Peruvian friend from church; Rosemary, the librarian from Archant; Philippa, the stone-cutter; Martin Mitchell, the artist whose etching we own; and Sandra, the artist I collaborated with a couple of years ago. Plus a few others. Sadly absent: Rüthli Losh-Atkinson, the other artist I collaborated with and a fine drawer of nudes, who died not long ago.