Nobody told me about the exhaustion. And if they had, I don’t suppose I’d have believed them, or thought it would ever apply to me.

It’s now almost 5 months since the great catastrophe. After the “excitement” of getting to Texas in a hurry, the emotional events of that week, returning for the Irish funeral and then the dreadful day of doom scattering on the Sugarloaf—after all this comes the daily grind of grief.

Much of the grief is self-serving; did I love him enough? did he know? did he love me? why did I do such and such when he was 10? did he know his time was limited? is that why he said such and such? why did I not pick that up? why did he feel he could not confide in me? … you can imagine the little stories I invented – without any evidence.

The self-pity has more or less worked itself out. Slowly I deal with autopsy findings, intellectual processing, picking up broken ends, revising expectations. I am beginning to sleep through the night thanks to Nytol. And the sparkle has returned to my eyes, people tell me. I begin to recover mischief and iconoclasm.

Four months ago I said that I felt as if I’d been struck with the greatest imaginable physical force. And so I did. But the exhaustion goes on and on and on. I do not wish to leave the nest. I do not want to be in situations where people might ask things of me. I barely have enough energy for myself and certainly none to spare for others. People hammering on the vicarage door at 11 pm swearing and spitting leave me unmoved. Those who claim to need train fares to Birmingham are likely to be dismissed ungraciously. Conserving energy is difficult when people are wanting to touch the hem of my garment in all sorts of ways. They sympathize, they mean well, they don’t mean to steal my energy, they don’t know they are doing it. I need to rethink how I deal with it.

A friend of similar age was discussing getting older with me. He was lamenting the lack of intellectual oomph. But, you know, I rather like that. After a lifetime of living by my intellect and striving to prove myself to parents, to colleagues, and to ego, I find it liberating to renounce the multiple seductions—academia, music, church, to name but three—to which I fell victim. Vanity of vanity, all is vanity.

These last few weeks I’ve been very glad of films on Netflix and YouTube. I’ve been enjoying violence as never before. But the thing that always revives the drooping spirit is—wait for it—Benidorm. As I make the great renunciations I begin to come down where I ought to be …

… the gutter. The valley of love and delight.

SWMBO has berated me for taking a bowl from the draining board rather than from the cupboard.

The life cycle of household crockery, a complete mystery to me, is clearly complex, and any disturbance of the natural rhythm is one that, as far as I can judge from the tirade that assaulted me, leads to cosmic disharmony of the most profound order.

It seems that reuse may begin only after an article has resided in the crockery cupboard for an undefined though not inconsiderable period. Before reaching said cupboard, the article must have been ‘dried’ on a tea towel (why tea towel?) despite already having drip dried on the plastic draining yoke, again for an undefined though not inconsiderable period.

To skip these two stages in the cycle by, as I did, reusing a bowl that had just been washed, is a mortal sin.

East Staffordshire Borough Council has cut its funding to the voluntary sector by over 27%. The Mayor, a member of the Borough Council, has written to ask me to support his chosen charities. Do you see anything odd here?

People who in my opinion need psychiatric care are unable to have it because the resources are not there. Junior doctors feel their voice is ignored by a government intent on spinning for the sake of cheap publicity. But look at the salaries of NHS administrators. Do you see anything odd here?

The Church of England General Synod makes decisions based on grand policy gestures without paying attention to those of us at the coal face. Indeed, it feels as if in order to put them into effect, they must needs hector the likes of me. You elect people to PCCs and they elect people to Deanery Synods and they elect people to Diocesan Synod and they elect people to General Synod. And by the time these darlings get that far up the greasy pole some of them are so intoxicated by being near the source of ‘power’ and influence and titles that they lose sight of where they came from.

Local politics and national politics affect everyone. Church politics affect very few, only those odd people whose Sunday hobby is going to a strange building that reeks of the past and who live in the past. It’s been said of academic politics (universities etc) that they are so vitriolic because they matter so little. How much more is this true of church politics.

As I keep banging on, Lent is an opportunity to take stock and look ahead, ditching what we don’t need any more. Our diocesan apparatchiks call this mission action planning – though I’ve no idea what mission is. I understand the value of assessing strengths, weaknesses, threats, opportunities, so that’s what we’re doing. The archdeacon is coming to check up on us in June. As government checks up on schools through Ofsted, it won’t be long before the Bishops check up on all our activities through OfGod.

I read in a book once that foundations are best built on rock not sand, so here are some rocks for you to consider as we plan for the future of our churches. Remember that I had a life before ordination, so I am not institutionalized. I’ve worked in the big wide world amongst people who know how the big wide world works. I’ve no interest in kow-towing to bishops or archdeacons, and I’m only concerned about my parishioners. Actually, as a cradle Methodist, I don’t know what bishops are for. Here are some of the realities that we’re up against.

• The vast majority of people under the age of 50 do not know the Lord’s prayer – have never heard of it, even.
• There are an increasing number of families in which four generations have never set foot in a church.
• Church funerals have plummeted even in the 10 years I’ve been ordained. No bad thing, less hypocrisy, though dioceses bemoan the drop in fee income.
• Some people say that there is a reservoir of affection for the church in the local community. I disagree. There may be smidgeon in the over 60s, but it does not result in significant support. Younger people don’t care two hoots.
• Some people regard the vicar as the means of tracing their family history – and that’s all.
• Some people expect the vicar – and the church – to pick up those who fall through the net of hard-pressed social services (see above) though who they think will do it, or pay for it, is not clear,

I could go on. And we haven’t even begun to consider buildings, toilets, car parking, let alone God.

Which brings me to football. Football stadia are our cathedrals. They have their own bishops and priests. They have their acolytes, their rituals, their liturgy, their hymns, their swaying charismatics. They provide pleasure and fun and community spirit. They are about living in the present and planning for the future.

Up the Brewers.

Her work includes stories of her early years in Carlisle in the 1940s and 50s.

In those days, before the M6 and the electrification of the West Coast Main Line, it and its Eden valley hinterland were cut off from the rest of England for much of the year when bad weather blocked the A6 over Shap and the road to Hexham.

It’s a particular part of the world, with the Pennines to the east, Scotland 8 miles to the north, the Solway to the west and the Lake District and Shap fell to the south. It doesn’t belong to the north east and Newcastle, though some would put it there. It doesn’t belong to Lancashire and Manchester, though the BBC thinks it does. It doesn’t feel at home in Scotland, though it was on and off until not that long ago. It is, as I say, particular. And so are its people.

After reading one of her books I wrote to say inter alia that so much of what she described of her childhood in the 1940s resonated with me and mine ten years later. It evidently took a decade for Carlisle attitudes to travel 20 miles upstream along the River Eden. At that time I’d not long moved to Ireland and I told her that this blunt and forthright Cumbrian was having to come to terms with the slantiness of Irish ways.

Her reply was wonderful, and I hope she would not have minded my sharing a bit of it with you. She described the exchange between her father and a visiting nurse bent down dressing his poorly leg. Imagine the flat vowels and properly pronounced consonants.

Yer must find it hard doin a job like yoo-ers.

Why’s that, Mr Forster?

Well, with you bein so stout.

Cumbrian factual straightforwardness with offence neither intended nor taken.

The inhabitants of lesser counties – and they are all lesser – simply don’t get it.