Thank goodness for medical science.

I readily admit that science was not my strong suit at school but I know enough to recognise that it is discriminating; science discriminates. 

I have been diagnosed with Grover’s Disease which, according to the British Association of Dermatologists, ‘is an itchy rash…..this commonly affects white men over 50 years of age.’

So it is racist, sexist, and ageist. 

Religion doesn’t play a part and, fortunately, it is neither hereditary nor contagious. The origin is unknown, it is comparatively rare, and it is treatable. 

The cap fits. I am white, male, over fifty and, thanks to the diagnosis by an excellent dermatologist, I no longer itch nor, more importantly to me, scratch.

My new ‘smart watch’ is very clever. I bought it because I understand it will contact my daughter if I have a fall and am lying unconscious. It will also tell her where I am – if I am wearing the watch of course. I wear it.

It sends me a message when it considers I have been sitting still for too long and need to walk around and it congratulates me when I have reached fitness goals that I didn’t know I had set. It is quite bossy.

It indicates when someone is calling on my iPhone or sending a message. I gather it and my iPhone are in some way related. It tells me the air temperature and claims to be able to tell my ‘state of mind.’

It has an alarm which is very helpful because it wakes me up by vibrating rather than by sound. This is important as I take out my hearing aids when I sleep and cannot hear my alarm clock.

My watch tells me how many steps I have taken during the day. If I set it correctly it shows me not only how far I have swum but also how long it took me to swim the 25 meters length of the Elephant and Castle swimming pool and what stroke I was swimming.

Yesterday I swam 275 meters freestyle, 200 breaststroke and, according to my smart watch 25 meters backstroke. The last was a surprise because I can’t swim backstroke without bumping into other people so I don’t. I did look with envy at a swimmer doing backstroke and keeping in a very straight line. Perhaps the watch either read my ‘state of  mind’ or is not quite so smart after all.

I am sure my smart watch can do much more than I have discovered so far. And it does show me the time.    

Recently a woman told me of a conversation with her partner. He had suggested that while women want to change men, men want women to remain the same. I tested the idea with a number of contemporaries. Their reactions varied.

It brought to my mind another conversation; one I had with my mother many years ago. When speaking of a mutual friend I had said, “So and so has improved. I met him last week and we had a very good and interesting conversation. My word he has changed.”

“Or you have”, responded my mother.

More and more I believe that we can change no one but ourselves. It is a truth inherent in Christianity. Christ offers a path to fullness. I recognise that I am not completely fulfilled and am far from perfect – and that the key is change.

I suppose it is why worship includes penitence: not a focus on sin but rather opening the way to a brighter and better future.

I enjoy hugely having people to dinner, a friend on their own or a number of friends. It is wonderful. I don’t even mind doing the washing up.

I also enjoy larger groups of friends and family. Sunday lunch is a particular joy especially when we include a range of ages from great nephews and nieces and their friends to my contemporaries. The food is fine, (usually chicken from the Saturday market, which works with preparation before church and cooking after) and the conversation wide ranging.

And I enjoy eating alone. I prepare the tray. I like it to look good. I set out everything before pouring myself a glass of wine and in due course taking the tray through to the sitting room and enjoying my meal. It may be just cheese on toast and salad but that suits me.

My mother, when on her own, followed a similar routine in the evening except that she always changed for dinner. I do not.

And then last week I gave myself a special treat which I may do of necessity when travelling but not when at home in London. I went out to dinner on my own to a restaurant, St John, at Smithfield.

I was not celebrating anything except the enjoyment of going out to dinner. It was so good. I had three starters and then the wonderful Eccles Cake and Lancashire cheese. I had my cake and ate it.

Friday last, I went, with friends, to the First Night of the Proms. The concert included music by Bliss, Mendelssohn, Sibelius, and Vaughan Williams. There was also a lively and enjoyable newly commissioned work ‘The Elements’ by The Master of the King’s Music, Errollyn Wallen. It was a great concert.

In the programme notes for her work Errollyn Wallen comments that its prime concern is “the fundamentals of music, life and love.” For me it lacked one such fundamental – silence.

By contrast the final work of the evening, Vaughan Williams ‘Sancta Civitas’, ‘The Holy City,’ contained and ended in silence that was profoundly attentive and still. We thousands who packed the Hall, some of whom had stood throughout the concert, were wrapt and silent..

I was reminded again that silence is not only an essential part of music but also of life. More and more I am aware of the different silences into which one can enter and their importance.

There is the silence of expectation, that of hope, the silence of fear, and the silence that goes with companionship. There can be a silence of despairing emptiness.

Nature knows of the silence which precedes disasters, such as tsunami.

For many who are religious quietness and silence allow an encounter with God. I have always valued the story of Elijah who escaping the anger of Queen Jezebel and, fairly fed up with himself and his lot in life, runs away. He is at Mount Horeb.

He does not find God in the noise and drama of earthquake, wind, and fire but in ‘a still small voice.’