A Respite

A Saturday off at last. It's been another of those weeks nibbled to death by ducks. Last Saturday I was playing for a wedding in Palm Springs in 90 degree weather and wearing far too much Scottish wool. At the end of which I started the longish drive back from the desert to the seashore and civilisation (or what passes for it in California) and found a flat tire. This was mostly not good. But we did get the opportunity to be the recipients of great kindness from a fellow who stopped to fix it for us. (Thanks again, Mike. If I knew your last name and your address you'd get a more personal thank you than this.)

And then there was the sore throat/bronchitis. Not incapacitating. But it doesn't help play the pipes either.

I think I've mentioned before that our parish has perpetual adoration. Mary and I do a holy hour from 3 to 4 on Thursday mornings. (The time was most assuredly not our idea. But Fr Greg needed someone for that time. Fr Greg is not an easy man to say no to.) This Thursday for some reason it occured to me to stay up when we returned home rather than going back to bed for the remaining couple hours of sleep. Why, I could get a head start on the day and catch up on all sorts of things. So the theory went. But it seems that I am no longer 20 years old and four and a half hours sleep doesn't do the trick any more. That was one bizarre day. I couldn't think through anything. I've never written so much rubbish in my life. (No, don't go scrolling back through the Inn's archives. I know there is some doofy stuff in there. But trust me; this was really worse.) I even missed All Soul's Day Mass. I made a point of keeping the communion fast. . . .and then forgot to go.

As for the rest of the week, I have no idea where it went. It certainly wasn't devoted to The Inn. Nibbled to death by ducks.