“It is not we who live, and they who are dead. It is they that live, and we who are dying.”

from a Polish priest-poet

A good friend has died. Another good friend conducted the funeral event. After welcoming everyone he said, “Despite my Godlike demeanour I am not a priest nor am I a celebrant.” He could well have been either, priest or celebrant, as he did the whole thing superbly. More importantly he was and is a friend. I watched the event ‘online’.

I realise, being old, that this is going to happen more and more, that friends will die, until of course I die, at which time I hope there are some friends to think about me. All of which has led me to think not so much about friendship, which I suspect is the most important relationship of all, but about gratitude.

As I have thought about my friend who has died I am so thankful, thankful to have known him, and for everything that he was for me and I’m sure for others. But it’s me that I’ve been thinking about. I’m not so much sad for my loss at his death but hugely grateful for my gain from his life and friendship.

Everyone knows that love is at the heart of Christianity. I believe that gratitude is there as well. After all that act of worship, the Holy Communion, which is the well spring of all Christian worship, is also called the Eucharist the Greek word that means Thanksgiving.

Last Sunday evening we had a Musical Evening at 87A. This time, I’m not sure why, I was more nervous than usual. The guests were more or less as always for these evenings with a few who hadn’t been before. The food was very much as usual, smoked salmon sandwiches and ham sandwiches (the ham from the farmers’ market), egg and bacon pie, olives, little tomatoes and other bits and pieces. The wine was, as usual, unspectacular but drinkable, and there was elderflower cordial on offer.

The musicians however were not the usual. Flutes and Frets, Beth Stone and Daniel Murphy were recommended to me by our recently appointed Director of Music at St Agnes. They were certainly offering something different from the string trios or quartets of other evenings or even the St Martin’s Voices who had sung at our last musical evening in Advent.

Beth and Daniel’s instruments were flute, lute and theorbo the latter being a wonderful renaissance instrument like a lute with a very long neck. The music they were to play disconcerted me too. I didn’t recognise the composers and they came chiefly from the fifteenth to the seventeenth centuries.

Friends arrived at 6.00pm. There were about thirty of us. The party was going well. At half past six I sat everyone down. Beth and Daniel came into my sitting room and played.

After they had finished playing when I thanked them I said, ”I don’t know why it should be that music is able to make me smile and bring me close to tears but you, this evening, have done both.”

I asked, ”Why?” to the Master of the King’s Music who was with us. She simply raised her hands. Why? It had happened. And it wasn’t just me. The others had experienced it as well. The musicians and the music had touched us, deeply, within an hour, on a flute, a lute and a theorbo, at 87a on a Sunday evening, in Kennington.

Many people walk their dogs in Kennington Park. Any encounter with a dog usually allows me to acknowledge the owner with a suitable greeting. On Friday morning on my way to St Agnes a woman, standing on one side of the path, called somewhat briskly, across me, to her dog on the other side, “Oh come on!” She then looked up, caught my eye, and added, “You can too if you like.” We both laughed and I continued on my way to church.

On Tuesday I was back at Strength and Balance at the Castle Centre. I think it is correctly called a Community Exercise Class and is provided, free of charge, through the Community Rehabilitation and Falls Service of the NHS. There were only three of us and Jeff our instructor. At one stage Jeff said, “Well done Simon.” I was pleased.

And then today, Wednesday, there was a knock on my door and a total stranger told me how much he admired the sculpture on Welsh slate in my front garden. He said he’d been visiting a neighbour, had commented on the sculpture, and was told I was friendly. So he knocked to tell me of his appreciation.

Such small things do lighten one’s day.

My Saturday mornings are very gentle and follow a regular pattern which includes a visit to the Farmer’s Market at the Oval.

Last Saturday began differently however as I’d come to the end of my four week pill dispenser. To fill it for the next four weeks takes time and concentration. Of one lot I must take 150mg one day and 175mg the next. As the pills come in 100s, 50s and 25s I need to get it right. Then there are three other lots of pills.

 Some years ago I asked a doctor what the side affects of some of these might be. He replied, slightly tersely, “Mr Acland, as I have explained to you, these pills are giving your body what your body has stopped producing naturally. The side affects are that you will feel wonderful!” That shut me up.

On Saturday I noticed that while all these pills are individually in foil sheets some of the foil sheets are now in foil envelopes which themselves are in cardboard boxes along with a page of printed instructions. When all was done the pile of packaging to throw away was considerable. I wonder how future generations will regard this waste? I remember when pills came in reusable bottles.

That done I set off to the market. Coming towards me on the pavement was a young woman riding her bicycle. She had a dog on a lead running alongside. She was talking on her telephone and applying lip salve. She managed to smile and ride past me without a wobble. I am usually irritated when people ride bicycles on the pavement but this time I couldn’t but admire her multi-tasking.

At the market there were unusually long queues. The weather was good. At my favourite vegetable stall when I was next but one to the front of the queue a rather bouncy young man queue jumped and plonked his bag on the table. The man in front of me, surprised and not altogether pleased, said, to no one in particular, “Who does he think he is? Boris Johnson?”

All this and it was only 10.30 on a Saturday morning.

P.S. Today, Wednesday, I was able to say, “Eid Mubarak” (Happy Eid) to three Muslims who were each clearly as delighted to be greeted for their festival as I had been on Easter Day for mine.