The Curate's Egg I

Egg of the Day

Scrambled

It is not late in the day; it is fairly and squarely lunch time (if you are not of the view that 'lunch is for wimps'), and already my head hurts. In life, a man needs a spitoon, and today's post is that spitoon. Hoik-Petooee ... ding.

1. I have been fully exposed to the popular press of you wimmin  - oh my word; what are you doing to yourselves? I didn't realise to what level the female psyche obsesses about weight. Guess what ... no, really - Beyonce lost four pounds last week. I can lose more weight than that by vacating my olfactory canals with a digit. Four pounds - and it reaches the glossy gleaming pages of Grazia. Natalie Cassidy apologised to the world for looking a little more cuddly than last edition - and why might this terrible circumstance be? She is pregnant. Oh my word ... saying sorry for wrapping the miracle of life in an ounce or two of love ... I ask you! Peculiar Spice (or is that Posh, I forget) is now so thin that all can see is her pout hovering 5'9" off of the ground, in the vicinity of a floating handbag and some whacky oversized sunglasses. If you are  to be anyone these days in Sleb Land then you will have sweated your giblets to near-death and produced a 'Lose Fat Fast' DVD  - immaciation for in un-initiated. Ladies, STOP!

Speaking as a blokey, and with some idea what causes the male red-cells to course more nimbly, I can tell you this: what you look like in the transient delapidating shell that you call a skin is as NOTHING when compared to the light that shines within it. God knows - you only have to look at most fellas to determine that four pounds to a man is largely his wallet and car-keys. It is all to do with who you are and not what you look like - though if in the event you are taller lying down than you are standing up, fear only for your health, not for how the world through the Sleb Land lens regards you. Enough said ... ?

 2. A controversial statement now - but if I don't make it, I will pop. Ladies of the Priestly Charism: stop apologising. God chose you, the Spirit ordained you, and the rest can ... well, converse with their own consciences elsewhere. I sense that in some circles that I have been party to in passing recently that you wonderful women are the only ones beating yourselves over the head. Enough said ... ?

3. I am tired. We are now in Holy Week (and if there are any Christians reading this that didn't know that, please go and stand in the corner), and the work-load is reaching its climax. I am a person who feels every cut of the scourge and each nail - and I rarely get through the Liturgy of Good Friday without weeping. This year, with so much stuff to do, I think that Good Friday might just overwhelm me - not good given that I am preaching. The crushing weight of the Passion has been given an extra dimension today. I officiated at the funeral of a very nice man earlier, and as I walked to the flower garden, I saw the vast array of flowers for a little girl of four years old who had died. That is as close as I got to that tragedy, and yet I am winded by it. I saw her radiant face on a card and she was overflowing with life. I bet that she was overflowing with life as she breathed her last and I pray that her smile is still as bright somewhere else. Life can be crap at times - and my prayers for the rest of this week will be with that poor family whose name I will never know.