I sat down today to finish the next instalment of my commentary on the Charge, which is the part which talks about ecstasy of the spirit being hers. I have been putting this off, for something in the order of four years, because when I came to write my commentary on that section originally I found that for some reason I could not write about the role of ecstasy in religion & magic. It irks me, even now, because I ought to be able to do it. I have actually got that section finished as much as I can, although I'm still not really happy with it (I will post it in the week). When I decided to publish the commentary as blog posts I disciplined myself to post them in the order the relevant sections come in the Charge, knowing that this would force me, as it has, to finish the sections I was having trouble with.
When I'd done that I got the bus to town and spent the day in Lichfield. I don't know how I managed to, I've certainly never done it before. I found a black tie & black bow tie (if I've got these things, I won't need them) in a charity shop. I made the mistake of buying a sandwich for lunch in a shop called Hindley's (didn't know Myra was at liberty), where I could feel my IQ plummeting as I waited in the queue of old people commenting on what a lot of cakes there were (it's a cake shop), & waiting for the staff who were moving at a snail's pace in a workspace clearly designed to prevent any fast service.
I bought a DVD about the Krays (more about them anon) in The Works, where another old man said 'aren't there a lot of books!' You've got it - it's a book shop.
I bought some trackies in a sports shop. I simply had to have them, since I saw a black kid wearing them on a bus the other day & coveted them. Unfortunately the shop had builders in otherwise I think I would have got somewhere with the man behind the counter - oh well, next time.
Then I went round the cathedral. I feel Lichfield to be extremely genteel, refined, & most of all, moneyed. This has clearly always been the case, since the cathedral has had the most ruthless Victorian going-over that I know of. I love Giles Gilbert Scott's work dearly, but his work on the choir at Lichfield clearly makes it a Victorian choir rather than what it would have been. Don't get me wrong - I don't dislike it, judging by the few that are left of the previous stalls it would have felt much more claustrophobic, it's just so heavy.
Home and there's some artwork up at New Street by school kids, depicting the Buildings of Birmingham, which I shall no doubt find pictures of & post at some point.
Oh, there was a gorgeous man with a beard in the cathedral, who ultimately I saw sitting in the chapel reserved for prayer (and the rest of it is for...?). Why is it the best men are not only straight but quite frequently evangelical Christians?
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