Peter Rhodes on a short heatwave, a brief holiday and an awfully long sermon
I HAVE been on holiday and this column was handed over to some of the youngsters in the office.
Consequently, a number of inappropriate words appeared in this hallowed space. These included: Kylie, Wolves, Spotify, Stockport and Eurovision. I can only apologise.
AND so normal service resumes with columns containing cosy, familiar words. Words like Virol, Dunkirk, armistice, pyjamas, wheel bearings and suchlike.
OWN up. How many of us actually listened to the entire 14-minute sermon delivered by the American bishop, Michael Curry, at the Royal Wedding? How many slipped out for a cuppa, assuming it would soon be over? Not a chance. Curry rattled on with his reflections on lurve, God's lurve and the everlasting, all-conquering power of lurve. It was longer than the Ten Commandments, longer than the Beatitudes on the Mount and more than seven times longer than the Gettysburg Address. As he spoke, I was driving down the M6 from Scotland. I switched the radio off for some blessed relief and switched on again later to find Curry had moved on from lurve to the power of fire. I found myself longing for the Crazy World of Arthur Brown, the 1970s pyromaniac pop star. Lurve him or hate him, you knew that when Arthur set his head on fire, the gig wouldn't drag on for 14 minutes.
BY chance, the Royal Wedding fell on National No Smiling Day, but only the Queen and Mrs Beckham seemed to observe it.
LISTENING on the radio, I was struck by Meghan Markle's voice. Close your eyes and it could be Carrie ( Andie MacDowell) from Four Weddings and a Funeral.
SCOTLAND? It was blissful. We caught a rare week when every day began with a mirror-perfect reflection of mountains on the loch and ended with a mellow, memorable and midge-free sunset . The sky was as blue as a peacock's neck and the breezes steady enough to fill our sails without blowing us over. The only irritation was the weekend influx of jetskis, ripping up the limpid lake and snarling like hornets.When these idiot-carriers were invented, did anyone question the wisdom of giving one person a device capable of ruining the quiet enjoyment of thousands of other people? Thought not.
AFTER a week of sailing to remote bays and beaches, the packing-up for home from Loch Lomond reminded me of the verse from Lewis Carroll's comic poem, The Hunting of the Snark. In theory, you move out from the accommodation like a deflating balloon, moving your kit from the various rooms into one room and then assembling it neatly at the island's landing stage for the ferry to the mainland. What could go wrong? Carroll tells us of a forgetful mariner: "He had forty-two boxes, all carefully packed, / With his name painted clearly on each: / But, since he omitted to mention the fact, / They were all left behind on the beach." Blowed if I can find my pyjamas.