Blessed day ...
No, I've not been taken into servitude as a handmaid. That is the red choir robe I wear when I'm singing in the choir of the Cathedral of The Isles on Cumbrae. It came from a church in the USA - the robe, not the choir - and is made of indestructible polyester and strangely warm in a sweaty sort of way. But it covers a multitude of strange garments, especially in winter, and has the benefit of making us all look much the same.
However, since becoming once again obsessed with the drama coming to the end of a season on TV (I was originally obsessed with the book; the TV series simply reawakened the awareness of how easily society can change) - since then, I find myself repeating some of the tritely pious catchphrases current in the society of Gilead - "Under HIs eye" ... "Blessed day" and so on. And when I put the robe on today and then met my pal, over on Cumbrae to attend the service in which I was singing, the temptation was too much. I'll leave the rest to the imagination of those who know me ...
The service in question was another joyous one - the installation of a canon in the form of the new Provost of the cathedral in Oban. It was an occasion for copes and finery, for music and liturgy, for meeting old friends. I've been participating in such services on and off for almost 50 years now; each one becomes a source of wonder that the voice holds out for up to three hours of rehearsal and then the service itself.
I enjoyed myself immensely. But now I'm so tired ... again!
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