I almost panicked. I thought I had lost the remote control for Laetitia. I knew the remote must be somewhere. It couldn’t have walked. Or perhaps it could? This gives ‘losing control’ a whole new dimension. I found the remote for the television. The remote for the radio and disc player wasn’t where it was meant to be but I found it, eventually, on the shelf under the television with the remote for the uplighter at the end of the sitting room. I never use that remote so I don’t know why I keep it.

I still couldn’t find the remote for Laetitia. I even looked in the drawer where I keep the remotes for the garden lights and the garage door but the remote for Laetitia was not there.

Perhaps I should explain about Laetitia. My younger daughter has given me, as a birthday present, a vacuum cleaner. I must admit my heart sank slightly as the box was big and the instructions looked complicated. But after a week I unpacked the box, several boxes actually, each inside another, and discovered the vacuum cleaner. With the help of a friend I dealt with the instructions. It was, is, a remote controlled vacuum cleaner.

My elder daughter has a similar vacuum cleaner. I think that maybe where the idea, as a present, came from. Her vacuum cleaner she has named ‘Mr Humphries’ as in, ‘Are You Being Served’. Sometimes, she tells me, she watches it moving around the room instead of watching television. That’s sad.

When I saw mine I sent a message of thanks saying, ‘It’s a girl, and she’s called Laetitia’. I have a friend who has named his electric bicycle Laetitia (Latin: joy or gladness) because she does the work going uphill leaving him joyful. My Laetitia does the work cleaning leaving me somewhat glad. The vacuum cleaner is round, about the size of an old 78 record, about two inches deep and on wheels. It is also extremely efficient.

My Laetitia, when I’ve found the remote, moves around my sitting room cleaning while I go to mass or to swim or, when I find the remote, to bed. When her batteries begin to fade she returns, of her own accord, to home base to recharge. Home base is under the black leather chair in which I sit to watch television, using the remote of course. It’s possible that one day I will replace that chair with one that has a remote so that it can raise my legs or stand me up when I need to get out of it.

Each of these remotes is helpful as they save me from mildly irritating tasks. I’m told that I can transfer most of their functions to my telephone along with changing the sound level for my hearing aids, controlling the central heating and seeing whose at the door. All that is just a step too far. My telephone is just a telephone. Except of course it isn’t. When I was in New Zealand it was my telephone that registered me in everywhere I went, supermarket, bus, church, café, everywhere. I’m told I can use my telephone as a debit card. I’m not going to risk that.

I truly do recognise that technology is wonderfully clever and helpful. However the pandemic, zooming and doing everything at a distance, remote, all of that has shown me that I never ever want to be distant, remote, from other people or for them to be remote from me. Well, not all the time.

P.S. I’ve found the remote for Laetitia. It was where I first looked. I mistook it for the remote that turns on the gas fire. Now, before winter, I must find that remote.

A friend has directed my attention to a radio programme, ‘Just One Thing’, with Dr Michael Moseley. It’s on BBC’s Radio 4. The introduction to the programme states, ‘If time is tight, what’s the one thing that you should be doing to improve your health and wellbeing? Michael Mosley reveals surprisingly simple top tips that are scientifically proven to change your life.’

After a slight struggle I’ve managed to download some of the programmes. One was broadcast on Sunday June 6th and was called, ‘Count your Blessings’. It’s all about being thankful. Research has shown, it seems, that being thankful can change and improve not only your mental life but also your physical well being. It can also help you sleep.

On the programme, apart from talking to someone who had done research on the subject, Dr Moseley set someone else the task of writing down, each evening, three things for which he was thankful, and interviewed him as well. It was all very interesting and informative, and it did take me back.

When my children were small I used to say prayers with them, individually, when they went to bed. We didn’t follow conventional patterns as they climbed into bed and I was the one that knelt beside the bed, my head near each of theirs so that no one else could hear – no one other than me and God, that is.

We would start with ‘God bless,’ and the the predictable, ‘God bless Mummy and Daddy’, then, depending on whether they wanted to shorten or lengthen prayer time, we’d go to siblings, grandparents, various relations, school friends and so on.

Next it was ‘Sorrys’. There were strict rules around ‘Sorrys’. I could not suggest anything that I thought should be included. There were sometimes when I thought there were glaringly obvious faults to be acknowledged. However it was not my business to point them out, even with a hint. Being sorry and God’s forgiveness was their business not mine – even though I was listening in.

‘Thank yous’, on the other hand I could encourage. ‘Thank yous’ were the final prayers before my, ‘Good night, God bless, Sleep Well, See You in the Mooorning’, which was a sort of chant, before a final three kisses goodnight. If ideas were not forthcoming for ‘Thank you’, the rules did allow me to prompt, ‘What about, thank you for …’, just to get the mind’s wheels turning. And, of course, once the wheels were turning there was another opportunity to extend lights out.

All of which takes me back to Dr Michael Mosely and ‘Just One Thing.’ I am very pleased that he has confirmed I got something right all those years ago. In another talk the ‘One Thing’ is, ‘Stand on One Leg’. I didn’t teach the children that. I’m trying it now, myself, each morning. It’s not easy. I hope it does some good.

The day before my eightieth birthday I went, in the morning, to a Requiem Mass for my very dear friend Bill Scott at St Mary’s Bourne Street. Bill was younger than me. It was a year since he died. He was, at one time, Vicar of St Mary’s. I first met him there. He had been my confessor following on from Fr Gilling, the previous Vicar, and another great priest. Bill had been a priest in Glasgow, a parish priest, chaplain to nuns and also Sub-Dean of the Chapel Royal.

I was wearing clericals. Bill would have preferred that. The service was wonderful and absolutely right for Bill. The music was perfect, Bach, Faure, Byrd, and the Voluntary at the end the Prelude from La Traviata, Verdi. The Preacher was Richard Chartres, former Bishop of London, who mentioned the Royal Representatives for the Queen, the Prince of Wales, the Princess Royal and Princess Alexandra.

The Bishop said, “There was never a wrong note. In this respect Royal service is a very severe test. Courts are full of temptations to pretence and gossip but Fr Bill from the kitchen to the drawing room to the throne room was unfailingly gracious and always the same to one and all. He was known and loved not as a courtier but as a priest first and last.”

And, he said, “Bill was a great priest, glad to be with God for the sake of the people he served and glad to be with people of all sorts and conditions for the sake of God.”

The whole sermon was, quite simply, good, as was the whole Service. After it I went to the Sloane Club for lunch with two friends. We’d been there, often, with Bill.

After lunch I walked back towards Pimlico and the Poule au Pot, all very familiar territory from my time at Christ Church, Chelsea. The stalls of the Pimlico Saturday Market were just closing down. I went to the bread stall. There was still some bread left, sourdough, and I mentioned to the stall holder that I was having people for supper in my garden the next day for my birthday. He said, “Happy birthday for tomorrow,” accepted five pounds, then gave me four loaves of bread and a large piece of chocolate cake as a birthday present. The customer standing next to me also wished me a happy birthday.

Feeling very good I decided to treat myself to a Black Cab to get home. The driver and I chatted. He mentioned that he was probably the only Black Cab driver in London who voted Labour. We talked politics and about life in general. I mentioned that it was my birthday the next day. When we arrived I went to pay and he reached up, turned off the meter, and said, “Happy Birthday.” I really should turn eighty more often.

The Day After

Thank goodness for my daughters! Well, also, thank goodness for my sons but on this occasion they were thirteen thousand miles away and it was my daughters who had not only coped with the supper the evening before but had also done most of the clearing up. And friends helped. Friends do. One had coped with the wine throughout the evening and had tidied up afterwards. I hadn’t needed to worry about a thing.

All this meant that the morning of the day after all I needed to do was to reflect on a very happy birthday, wonderful music from the Consone Quartet, very good food from Sally White’s, very good friends and then empty the dishwasher and fill it again. My daughters had done the work and had left everything stacked and ready. Then I went off to mass.

My swim was next on the agenda. I had forgotten this was the first day of easing of restrictions. I was no longer required to arrive at the Castle Centre, ‘dressed for my activity’. So I had my swimming togs (NZ) bathing suit/trunks (UK) already on, under my trousers, as I’ve become accustomed. At the pool I discovered I could now go to the changing room and no longer had to follow a one way system carrying my bag to the poolside. OK, so I’d forgotten the combination on my padlock for the locker and I couldn’t remember the system but nor could some of the others so we sorted each other out.

Everyone seemed in a good mood and we rather grinned at one another in surprise at the abnormal normality of it all. The day continued rather like that. Of course I’m still wearing a mask on the bus on my way back from the pool. Today the bus driver saw me coming and waited at the bus stop till I caught up. He was a regular driver on this route and has become used to me, I think, as a regular customer.

The sun is shining, people are friendly, and eighty seems a good age to be.

The Friends of Kennington Park organised a Lockdown Competition. It was an invitation to share favourite things about Kennington Park during Lockdown. There were three categories: 1 drawing / painting / cartoon. 2 photo / video. 3 poem / song / story. There were four prizes in each category, first, second and third and a children’s prize for under fourteen year olds.

The winners have now been announced. There are posters of their work on the hoarding which hides the construction on the new Northern Line extension part of which is accessed through a building in the corner of the park. I walk past it whenever I go to St Agnes. Among the posters is one of the winning painting of the children’s prize in the first category. It is by Josiah Onojobi whose mother told the organisers,

“Kennington Park is a lovely place for making friends. While Josiah and his friends were practising their music in the park, people walking by would show appreciation. One of those was a neighbour we had never met, who lives just two minutes from us. After meeting in the park, we joined him for lunch and tea, and he showed our sons his beautiful paintings and gave one to Josiah – a painting of Kennington Park. Josiah set about creating his own version – this drawing – which he in turn gave to our neighbour.”

I am really pleased Josiah’s painting won. The painting you will find on this website under ‘Paintings’. Josiah painted it, but it is mine because Josiah gave it to me. I am the neighbour.

When will the time come when elderly pedestrians are the ‘people of the moment’. Cyclists, at this moment, are in – chiefly young cyclists. Those responsible for traffic in London clearly dislike cars, other than as a source of income from the congestion charge. Road blocks have been put up all around me. They are at the end of Alberta Street and of Penton Place as well as three of the streets on the way to St Agnes.

Cyclists are allowed to go through the road blocks but not cars. And there is a cycle highway in both directions on Kennington Park Road. I’d probably be in favour if I could still ride a bicycle but for me to do that would be a danger to the general public and myself.

However all these changes in favour of cyclists do not stop some of them riding on the pavement – my pavement, which is there especially  for mothers and fathers with prams (or whatever prams are called these days) and elderly pedestrians like me.

I remonstrated with two cyclists on the pavement the other day. They were riding towards me and there beside us, on the road, was the cycle highway. I said, quite loudly, only so that they could hear me of course, and pointing to the cycle highway beside me, “There’s a lane for you there!” The cyclist in front turned his head back and shouted, “Racist!” I had only noticed they were riding on the pavement.

Perhaps I’m simply driven by self interest. But not entirely. My old friend Angela, who has died long since, gave up her favourite walk along the Embankment because she was once bumped into by a cyclist riding on the pavement and so became fearful of walking there. I hope it’s in her memory and for others like her, as well as for my own sake, that I speak up.

 And not everyone operates out of self interest. I’ve met two young people recently, quite separately, who have had their covid jabs, against their personal preference, so that if, by chance, they did get the virus seriously they wouldn’t take up a hospital bed that would otherwise be used by someone with cancer or whatever else. I liked that a lot.

I suspect covid has given many of us a greater awareness of being responsible for, or being part of, others. There does seem to me to be more of ‘we’ rather than ‘me’ about and I enjoy that too.

 I do like it that ‘We’ (in this case I’m a New Zealander) won the cricket and that ‘We’ (now I’m British) beat Germany at Wembley. ‘We’ did it! And if you have any notion at all of my relationship with cricket and football you are right to wonder. And yet ‘I’, as part of that ‘We’, did. And it feels good.

PS A friend commenting on my last week’s bus journey to and from Streatham emailed, ‘Did you leave your rose tinted spectacles behind in the pub?’ I still think the same houses looked wonderful on the way out and drab on the way back. Different angles on the same reality I think. So I suppose I must face the fact that I choose my ‘We’ to be with the footballers and their win and not with those in the stadium who booed during the playing of the German National Anthem. I do pick and choose. Oh dear! I’ll have to think about that.