And then ...
Like a hangover after a party, today had a strangely empty intensity. There was church, of course - like walks, that tends to be a constant unless we're away, and today we were both working. Mr PB is at the organ except when he's arranged a substitute (again, for holidays) and I was preaching to what seemed like a dozen people and a dog. (I'm not joking about the dog; it comes every Sunday these days, and makes no sound at all.) It's mornings like this that bring home the essentially fragile nature of our congregation: fragile in that there are several old people in it and there is this bug going around that lays some people very low indeed. And then there are those who just decide it's a wet morning and don't bother ... But I enjoy preaching, and today's subject, the baptism of Jesus, was one I'd given quite some thought to recently. You can see why on my blog post here.
In the afternoon I took some flowers from the church to my poorly friend and four of us drank tea and blethered round the kitchen table - the best kind of afternoon visit. I'm blipping a photo I took on our obligatory walk before we got there - the Holy Loch from the Kilmun shore, with the sunset pink of the clouds in front of us while a shower we'd managed to miss heads off over the Firth of Clyde towards Gourock on the left.
Some pressure group in the Church of England thinks it'd be a good idea for churches to ring their bells to celebrate Brexit at the end of the month, as if we'd just won a war. It makes me cross even to think about it. Would it be better not to care?