You don’t need me to give you reasons why you should come to Church…..OK if you do, can I recommend “Why Go To Church” by Timothy Radcliffe OP, which is an excellent read, and really will leave you with few excuses not to go.
However, this coming Sunday does bring with it a couple of special challenges. So in the hope of assisting all to overcome these challenges, and following the principle of “forewarned is forearmed”:
1. The clocks go forward @ 2 a.m. on Sunday, so we will all loose an hour’s sleep, which if you look like me, is a pretty desperate situation. It also means that if you forget, you’ll arrive for Eucharist just in time for coffee…..well ok not a bad idea as such, but think how much better it will taste if you have it after the Eucharist, rather than instead of.
2. The running season is upon us!! You may have spotted red faced, sweaty people trundling around the parks and streets around you. They do seem to be very communal in nature, bless ‘em, and seem to like to trundle in groups. Have none of them read “The loneliness of the long distance runner?” Point is that there is a mass running event, well ok race, if you insist on stretching a point beyond breaking, on Sunday. As a result, all the usual roads will be closed off for seemingly most of the day, whilst the organisers wait for the final unfit wannabe to collapse over the finish line. So allow time for unexpected and badly planned diversions, to say nothing of the jobsworths in florescent jackets, who’s role is apparently to prevent none pedestrian ambulant citizens from travelling beyond their front gate.
If gentle reader you detect a slightly misanthropic tone….try living 250 yards from the start line!! All I want to know is why EVERY race has to start in Sefton Park, and then wend its way past both entrances to my home, and even prevents a sneaky exit through the back gate into Princes Park? Surely the trundlers would like the occasional change of scenery, a fresh challenge, a new horizon? Sorry, I detect a note of mild hysteria and will stop before I’m mown down in a rush of irate Lycra clad keep fit fanatics.