Christening

Evening, Amigos.

I am writing to you from my niece's laptop sat next to a very warm radiator in my sister's dining room, in the very depths of north Shropshire. I have recently eaten a very big burger and chips followed some time later by an Eccles cake and I now have a steaming mug of tea next to me. Outside it is cold, dark and foggy. I could do with being a little cooler, but overall I'm happier in here than I would be out there.

Today was the reason for my trip to the ancestral cave. The youngest member of the family, my Great Niece Courtney was dipped. The church is pretty standard English country church of uncertain but reasonable age - not Norman, but probably late middle ages. They built them surprisingly warm in those days. The vicar was a sort of camera negative of the Vicar of Dibley; being thin and dressed in white. I don't do this sort of thing very often, not being of the religious persuasion myself, but there was something - if not High Church about it, certainly Middle Church. Not exactly the "stink of papalism", but certainly enough of a whiff to have a puritan scratching his nose and checking his armpits.

We then drove to Church Stretton for whatever the baptismal equivalent of a reception is. A reception probably. I was suitably confused, I think, to find us in the local Masonic Lodge. Not quite what I expected, but then Church Stretton is only a small place. There is a bar downstairs and a meeting room up. Nothing else, as far as I could see (the Lodge, not Church Stretton - it's small, but not that small). I was heartened to see the photographs of various worthy Free Masons, each looking as solemn as the next with their regalia and pinnies. Sadly, not a rolled trouser leg or dodgy handshake to be seen. And no-one invoked The Great Architect. Most disappointing.

In the meeting room there were nicely calligraphed plaques with the names of more local worthies dating back on an annual basis to 1920. As you would expect, there were lists of Past Masters, Worshipful Masters and such. I was immensely pleased to see an annual roll of Supreme Rulers. It seems the universe has been governed from a tiny meeting room in south Shropshire since 1920.

Explains a great deal.

Young Courtney is clearly of the blood. Directly after the champagne toast, she was giving her mother's glass an enquiring look, so Hayley gave her a little sip of the champagne. It turns out that eight month old girls have supernaturally strong fingers. We couldn't prise the glass out of her grip and the littlest member of the family took a reasonable sized slug, looking mightily miffed when it was finally removed.

ellefurtle would have approved, I feel.

Christening

Evening, Amigos.

I am writing to you from my niece's laptop sat next to a very warm radiator in my sister's dining room, in the very depths of north Shropshire. I have recently eaten a very big burger and chips followed some time later by an Eccles cake and I now have a steaming mug of tea next to me. Outside it is cold, dark and foggy. I could do with being a little cooler, but overall I'm happier in here than I would be out there.

Today was the reason for my trip to the ancestral cave. The youngest member of the family, my Great Niece Courtney was dipped. The church is pretty standard English country church of uncertain but reasonable age - not Norman, but probably late middle ages. They built them surprisingly warm in those days. The vicar was a sort of camera negative of the Vicar of Dibley; being thin and dressed in white. I don't do this sort of thing very often, not being of the religious persuasion myself, but there was something - if not High Church about it, certainly Middle Church. Not exactly the "stink of papalism", but certainly enough of a whiff to have a puritan scratching his nose and checking his armpits.

We then drove to Church Stretton for whatever the baptismal equivalent of a reception is. A reception probably. I was suitably confused, I think, to find us in the local Masonic Lodge. Not quite what I expected, but then Church Stretton is only a small place. There is a bar downstairs and a meeting room up. Nothing else, as far as I could see (the Lodge, not Church Stretton - it's small, but not that small). I was heartened to see the photographs of various worthy Free Masons, each looking as solemn as the next with their regalia and pinnies. Sadly, not a rolled trouser leg or dodgy handshake to be seen. And no-one invoked The Great Architect. Most disappointing.

In the meeting room there were nicely calligraphed plaques with the names of more local worthies dating back on an annual basis to 1920. As you would expect, there were lists of Past Masters, Worshipful Masters and such. I was immensely pleased to see an annual roll of Supreme Rulers. It seems the universe has been governed from a tiny meeting room in south Shropshire since 1920.

Explains a great deal.

Young Courtney is clearly of the blood. Directly after the champagne toast, she was giving her mother's glass an enquiring look, so Hayley gave her a little sip of the champagne. It turns out that eight month old girls have supernaturally strong fingers. We couldn't prise the glass out of her grip and the littlest member of the family took a reasonable sized slug, looking mightily miffed when it was finally removed.

ellefurtle would have approved, I feel.