Chee Dale Christmas

The Monsal Trail is becoming our favourite local walk.  So when our traditional Christmas Day outing came onto the radar, it was little surprise that Clive announced, "We'll all meet in Millers Dale Station car park".  It ticks the boxes: less than half an hour's drive away, with toilets and an electric-buggy-friendly route, and fascinating vistas. 

Last year had been wet and cold, and the River Wye was swollen over its banks at several points.  Half of us had diverted up to higher ground, and followed a track across farm fields via Flag Dale.  This year was marginally less wet and cold, and the river just about allowed for the adventurous to take the Chee Dale lower path.

We boasted a substantial Chinese contingent - some from our house and some from No25.  Mary and I were getting cold just standing around, so led the way to the 'abseiling bridge'.  Then we headed down to the riverside path.  Before long, Callum, Keziah and the legendary Titus joined me at the front of the party.  They seemed comfortable with a mouldy oldie pottering along with them, so we stuck together.

Clive's laminated route plan referred to two sets of stepping stones.  As this was the point where most of the adventurous had to turn back last year, I was keen to see how we'd fair.  I'd expected the stones would cross the river.  But just at the point where the flow has undercut the rock face, there's a line of cube blocks parallel to the river, making up for the washed-away bank.  The second set, further along, was mostly covered, but not so we got stuck.

We made it through to the turn-back point, where we converged with the easy route.  It had taken just an hour.  It had been great fun. Titus had managed to keep the water out of his wellies, though he had mud up to his armpits.  A stubborn root sent Kezzie sprawling.  Callum had talked incessantly.  On the return path, the echoing tunnels tempted some of the more festively-minded to try out "Ding dong merrily on high".

Back at the Station we spread the picnic tables with sandwiches, fruit and cake, and the saints dived in.  Viv was bartering with Marcello and Quieng for the most bacon.  We packed Ray into a car to counteract his shivering.  Rosie was on her phone.  Peter Ali showed up on his mountain bike.  Jack thoughtfully squashed up all the sandwich packs and plastic cups so the back bin liners wouldn't overflow our wheelie bins back home.   Jan and Jane arrived as everyone one else was leaving.

Before Sheffield I took a detour through Eyam.  The view across the valley to Frogatt Edge was clear and bright.  Back home, Andrzej bundled his two Arabic-speaking friends into the little lounge to view the next episode in his DVD on Old Testament theology.  Harriet cooked up chicken supreme.

Sadly, I can't deny that I did some Jesus Centre admin before Mary and I got ready to spend the evening - as usual - with Phil and Donna in Chesterfield.  Returning at 11.00pm, Viv was taking home some Slovakian Romanies who'd been at the Jesus Centre.  An amazing mix. 

Tomorrow it's a central leaders event.

Sweet Bells and St Winifred

Mary and I have joined the local choir.  Back in the summer there were rumours that one would start in Broomhall, and I was interested.  Our mission motivators intermittently ask what we'd like to do to 'get out a bit more' and 'meet some normal people'.  Courses, clubs, and groups is the category I most readily warm to.  I had a brief flirtation with the University of the Third Age Creative Writing group.  Please believe me when I say it was so that I could improve the quality of my blogs!   But the choir means that Mary and I can go together.  Broomhall News announced it would form in November. 

"They'll probably want us to do a Christmas Concert..." Mary was apprehensive.  "Nah," I reassured.  "They'll hardly have sorted out if we're tenors or altos or whatever by then."

Wrong.  At our first practise, we were drilled in breathing techniques, sang scales to ooh, aah, eeh and lah, learned - as a memory exercise - the first half of the Humming Chorus from Puccini's Madam Butterfly, and tackled 'Cradled in a manger, meanly' ("don't forget the comma, the English doesn't make sense without it...").  Christmas Oratorio looked well within reach by December.

Our choirmaster is Steve.  If you check out energetic, irrepressible and enthusiastic in your online Thesaurus (who needs a creative writing course?), you'll get a suitable a cohort of adjectives (what is the collective noun for adjectives? an embroidery?).  He has a distinguished track record: director of the Sheffield Youth orchestra, Worrall Male Voice Choir, etc.  Inevitably, there have been comparisons with Gareth Malone of BBC Choir series.  Steve is dismissive.

Mary's brother, Tony, reluctantly joined the City of Bath Bach Choir (meeting in the Abbey).  Apprehensive at the technical challenges, he was surprised to find that the mid-rehearsal tea break is the best bit of each practise.  It is the same for all amateur groups?  It is for us.  Week one I met Ian, a quietly-spoken emeritus professor, and week two, John, retired team leader from the Social Services Department.  Week three Terry joined us, and week four, David from the aforesaid WMVC.  Meanwhile Mary's been sorting out the Sheilas, Marjories and Margarets, half of whom seem to be elders at the local URC Church where we meet for Tuesday practice.  Then we learnt that Ray and Ruth, newly relocated from Belfast to Battlecentre, have joined a choir that meets in the Royal Opera House.  Provincial just can't compete!

With week two came "Sweet Bells".  This is variation on the traditional "While shepherds watched their flocks" with a jolly chorus.  The objective seems to be for the men to cram in as many sweet bells, chiming bells and Christmas bells as the available notes and syllables will permit.  Steve seemed to think this exercise in lyrical shoe-horning was all good sport, and part of what gives each interpretation its distinctive local character.  Frustrated, I went home and drained YouTube of available renditions, until I had a workable version.  Then I set to, out of harm's way, while on the rowing machine in the cellar, to master the challenge.  Mary laughed at me as I woke up humming, drove humming and ate humming.  I was not to be deterred, even if I hoped we never had to sing it in performance. 

Flushed with triumph, I returned in week three to find that Ian had similarly marked up his score - with a different result!  Chaos again among the basses.  Back to the cellar and heavy editing.  Then came week four's anticlimax.  "We won't sing that this week." Steve announced.  "Well be joining two other choirs at the University in a couple of weeks, so let's try something else."   Out came "Cradled in a manager, meanly" again, til we'd mastered it unaccompanied.  You'll  find nothing on YouTube for the tune St Winifred.  But I have a bootleg video that I shot on stage in the main Firth Hall performance, and I'm sorely tempted to be first to post it.

How have we been propelled to such dizzying choral heights when we only wanted to 'meet some normal people'?

Liverpool Weekend

We'd promised the Lighthouse saints we'd visit again, and this time took Stephen.  We discovered that they don't do breakfast, lunch and tea on Saturdays, but brunch and tea.  However, when we arrived at 1.00pm, they busied to provide us with a meal.  The Snake Pass has been closed near Rivelyn, and the Woodhead Pass proved bright and sunny.

Ian took his two children back the front garden to finish building a little hut to attract various wildlife, and Stephen went to find the local Tescos.  Mary and I headed to Otterspool Promenade.  I'd discovered it last time on a brisk walk before the Sunday morning meeting.  The sun had turned to drizzle and the wind was blustery.  I suggested we stayed in the car so Mary had a doze and I'd catch up with some reading.  I rang Gav.  "We're sitting on the Mersey Estuary, watching the twinkling lights from the Ellesmere Port oil refineries.  Romantic." 

Back at the house we had an update on their building repair work.  The 'Gate' external wall had lost its plaster ready for waterproof treatment, and provoked interesting comments as visitors for the evening meeting gathered.  Mark spoke about finding fresh faith.  Joe, responding, asked for prayer, and Tommy and I led him into speaking in tongues.  Over supper Lill led the younger folks in a round of riddle-solving, while Blaze got busy in the kitchen.

As we left for the Sunday morning event, we saw Ian's finished hut.  A good number gathered at the Arche centre, and Joe was happy with last night's touch from the Holy Spirit.  I led the '40' meditation (by Chris Goan and Simon Smith), and we interacted well.  The folks chatted warmly before we returned for lunch at Lighthouse. 

 Mary and Stephen left mid-afternoon.  I was staying over for a mentoring session with Ian and the Monday evening.  I fell into conversation Rob and Pauline, and discovered (like me) he'd read Pope Francis's recent Exhortation.  We chatted about what 2014's changes may bring for us.  This included the paradox between us maintaining good stewardship of the application God has led us into, and our stamp of character by which we love to pioneer new things.  I fancy there's something around peace - the work of the Cross - that we can afford to amplify.

We had an early supper of pizza.  "It's Deno's birthday", Ian announced.  "Blaze has done him a cake.  Coming to see him for an hour?".  I was glad to, and we headed to Speke, where he looks after his 79-year-old mum.  Deno had lived with us for a year in Sheffield, then settled at Dayspring in Northampton.  But first his father's then his mother's failing health had called him back.

We heard the dog as we reached the door.  It yapped incessantly - from under the sofa, in front of the television, and in the hallway.  I struggled to identify the breed - some form of soft-haired terrier.  Deno make us a cup of tea, and divided Blaze's cake - complete with fresh cream - into five huge chunks.  Meanwhile the television entertained us with a Sunday evening omnibus on serial killers. 

Monday morning was cold, and Ian and I shared the office.  We stopped for a cuppa, and spent a couple of hours on Professional Development stuff.  The evening get-together was a new 'prophetic pioneers' group that represents the grassroots initiatives being promoted by the younger half of the church.  Viv and Harriet came over from Sheffield, so there was a good Northern mix.  It was great to hear how Lill and Blaze have vision for eleven younger girls, and are planning a camp for the summer.  Kerry wants to beg a piece of waste ground in Kensington (Liverpool) from the Council, and set up a community gardening project.  Harriet wants to start a 'Come dine with me' group.  I related how the Leicester saints had had a year of amazing initiatives, but somehow not reached a breakthrough.  It seems to point to a need for more prayer, so we prayed.

Viv slept in the back of the car as Harriet and I chatted our way back over the Pennines.  Many good things seem to be stirring.

Angels, Songs and Explanations

On Sunday morning in Coventry we sang Robin Mark's song Take us to the river.  It has an interesting third verse, that runs: Is this Your mighty angel / Who stands astride the ocean and the land / In His hand Your mercy...  On Monday morning I received a somewhat querulous email:  Can you tell me who the angel is standing on the ocean and the land?  There is one in Revelation but he is not doing what it says in the song.  It irritates me every time we sing it because I don't like singing what I don't understand.

I suggest querulous, because it wasn't difficult to track down an answer.  I'm sometimes driven to confront people with, "Well, do you want an explanation, or do you just want to grumble?"   Robin Mark had blogged about the Revelation 10 reference.  http://robinmark.com/the-story-behind-take-us-to-the-river/  He wrote the song with the theme of God's mercy in mind.  The angel has a scroll which is generally interpreted to be the gospel.  Mark points out that this is both sweet and bitter.  His blog continues that, for example, the Father's mercy to the returning prodigal son leaves a bitter taste in the older brother's mouth (Luke 15).  However, the song doesn't go on to explore this intriguing extension.

I thought that, in similar vein, I'd write a bit about one of my songs.  As it's not nearly so well known, here are the lyrics.

Lord, for You my strength, my days;
Follow You in manly ways;
Lift to You deep voice of praise.
Son of Man.

2. Lord, for You my social roles:
Headship, priesthood, guarding souls.
Covenant depth in faith-charged goals.
Abraham's Shield.

3. Watched by You from mother's breast.
Called to serve, achieve the best.
Steeled by trial, succeed each test.
Moses' Friend.

4. Train my mind and gain my will:
Talents, boldness, dexterous skill,
Fire of passion - all fulfill.
David's Lord.

5. Conqueror of my Adam pride;
Prophet search me when I'd hide.
With the towel my falseness chide.
Peter's Rock.

6. Spirit filled and gifted, strive.
Pressed by hell, yet I'll survive.
Sons are with me.  He's alive!
Jesus Lord.

7. Burning eyes and keys in hand.
Lion-Lamb before I'll stand.
Myriad voices; blood-bought band.
Heaven's Man.

NCCC (c) 2000 JesusFellowshipChurchCopyCare Ltd.

I wrote it as an encouragement to my friend Tim, when he was first called upon to lead a workshop in one of our Men Alive Days.  Often these workshops provide a challenge to grow in godly, distinctively masculine, character attributes.  Hence the use of Abraham, Moses, David and Peter as models, then an expression of personal aspiration, all topped and tailed by verses about Jesus.  I like songs with - what Huw calls - raw thump and bite.

Sadly, I don't write too many like that anymore.

Multiply India Retrospect

"when can we get together?" Nathan and Sam both pressed me.  We found a free Thursday evening, and booked in at Kings for tea.  Nathan and Sam had heard very little about Steve being in South India and then Myanmar and UAE.  I hadn't got their full story from Cuttack, Odisha, either. "Come on, Steve." Nathan encouraged.

Steve reminded us that we'd ruined his attempt at snatching some rest before flying south to Kerala, when we discovered Nathan's laptop was missing at Bangalore airport.  His flight was uneventful, but Daniel, who was due to follow an hour later, found his service was cancelled.  Steve waited several hours in the inhospitable airport until Daniel finally arrived on the last scheduled flight of the day.  Their time spent with Daniel's friend, Dennis, has been a delight.  But later, in Thrissur, the hotel was dingy and the delegates attending the conference not the promising catchment they'd hoped for.  Checking in for the onward flight to Myanmar, Daniel found out that visas aren't available for Indian nationals on arrival.  Steve was left to head for Kuala Lumpur on his own, as so grateful to find me waiting in Yangon airport.

Nathan took up his account of the Church on the Streets staged in Aizawl, Mizoram.  The young people's group that had promised to support the scene had been brave and spontaneous.  Next day, Colney took Nathan and Sam to the Jesus Army rehab out of the city.  They'd immediately clicked with the team there, working in very sparse conditions.  "What do you need?" Nathan had asked.  "A carpenter to build us more furniture here, and then teach the guys some skills, so they can move on from their addictions to something constructive."  Nathan asked him to put a figure on this.  Something like £5,000 would see it sorted.  Back at Colney's home, Nathan put out a Facebook page, and within hours netted some hundreds of pounds of pledges.  That's now been passed over to one of our veteran church members, who has the business experience and time to see it comes to fruition.

"Cuttack was something else," Sam chipped in.  "We arrived in the middle of a Hindu festival.  I found it quite intimidating. This group of young guys came up to me and were trying to get me to dance. 'C'mon, dance for the god!' they pushed me about."  Hannah, Sam's missus nodded vigorously.  Sam had experienced a few scary moments on the trip, including the road accident in Bangalore when his autorickshow had run into a van.  However, the visit to the boys home/orphanage had melted his heart, and been more than compensation.  "They all lined up yo welcome us, in red cross teeshirts.  Oh, the enthusiasm in their worship!".  "Yea, that's what got me in Mizoram, too." Nathan added.  "I wanna do a video that will inspire us to get into worship like that."  Sam and Nathan rounded off with their comedy-film routine of getting through security at Mumbai airport.

"I was chewed up about some of the things that went wrong," I confided.  "We had these big misunderstandings about what Steve's described about Thrissur; Butch arriving in Myanmar and how the whole budget for Yangon got out of schedule.  I'm trying to pick my way through it all."  I wasn't sure whether to go into detail.  "We've always said that every new Multiply activity we embark on stretches our leadership relationships more."

Nathan got us back to a more positive note.  "Who are we going to follow up?"   "Ah, the MILC conference in May/June next year is going to have three tracks."  I explained,  "One for the existing AMEN guys, then two each invitees that they see as key players either in their home scene or for a new place; then a J Gen track for younger folks, or leaders working with them like we do at RAW - again, about two each."  "Wow, that's great!"  Nathan and Sam were excited.  They fired off a load of names they're in contact with on Facebook.  "And don't forget the Intern scheme," I added.

"While we're on follow up," Steve joined in, "Greatheart, you really must get someone to take on some of the admin side.  I watched you dealing with the travel, the finances, the conference equipment - and after you'd done all the planning...  It was too much."  "Well, it was first time for you guys, so I wanted to smooth the way."  I explained.  "Yeah, but you're going to tell me the same about Zambia next year," he persisted.  He's right, there's still lots to work on.

Dave stuck his head round the door and offered us all tea and flapjack.  "Tell the others about the train home," I nodded at Steve.  "From Manchester airport, I fell asleep and went right past Crewe, so I had to double back from Sandbach," Steve explained.  "I did 20,000 miles in 15 days on eight flights, like clockwork, then missed my train connection!  The whole household turned out at Rugby station - with flags.  The other passengers were gobsmacked!"   "C'mon Greatheart, when are we going again?"  Nathan spoke for all of us.  "I think next it's got to be Delhi, to try to cover the northern third of India.  Who knows?"   It was way past 11.00pm, and I had to drive back to Sheffield.  It had been special. 

Searching for the North at Bishopthorpe

Every month or so, an e-newsletter titled 'Spirit Level' pops into my Inbox.  It's complied by a lady called Janet who represents the Churches Regional Council (CRC), a body originally set up by the Yorkshire and Humberside Regional Development Agency.  The dozen or so former RDAs have been phased out as such, but CRC marches on.  Spirit Level is a fascinating digest of church activities.  I've attended several events and downloaded some excellent material from its content and links. 

The October one caught my eye:   A day conference for mission practitioners, church leaders, theologians and missiologists to reflect together; What is distinctive about the North of England?  What might be a proper and fruitful relationship between the North and South for the mission of God in England?  Is there a Northern gospel?  The date was free, the price modest, and it was at Bishopthorpe Palace, York, a quick hour's train journey away, so I booked. 

There must have been worst places to be on the day.  The morning sun was clear and bright, and the mature trees in the Palace grounds flushed with autumn colours.  Along the gravel approach, through the arch, up the terrace steps, and enter by the front doors (not the generally used Reception) to collect my badge.  It's the paintings, or should I say portraits, that set the tone: all clerics one imagines of high status - in varying poses and vintages of dress.   We were ushered into the State Hall.  I counted fourteen portraits high around the walls, then amazing mouldings reaching the ceiling.  Through the large sash windows, the Ouse flowed wide, fast and dark brown along the rear garden terrace.  Most of the delegates were in clerical dress of contemporary mode.   "I feel like a lion in a den of Daniels," I observed to Gavin, our facilitator for the day.

The housekeeping announcements introduced us to a beautiful brass bell suspended in a wooden frame to be rung as a fire alarm.  Malcolm, the Archbishop's Chief of Staff, welcomed us and led the opening prayers.  He apologised that the Archbish was unable to be here - away in Canada.  Then we had our first morning plenary session: a set of compelling statistics presented by Kate Pickett, professor of epidemiology at York.  (You can see the presentation, done by her colleague and co-author on http://www.ted.com/talks/richard_wilkinson.html).  The studies include aspects of health, quality of life, social capital compared across 23 counties.  Her basic conclusion was that inequality in incomes causes more harm than low incomes (per se).  And the relevance to the North of England was that when things start to get bad, they get worse faster and more pronounced for poorer regions.  Kate invited a Christian response of speaking out against destructive inequality.

Over coffee, I met several other folks from Sheffield, though the total catchment ran for Newcastle to Nottingham, and across both sides of the Pennines.  Session two was the turn of Steven Cross, Bishop of Sheffield.  He spoke of two strands of analysis at work in the diocesan churches: first, congregations know the gospel but need guidance on how to launch mission.  Two: churchgoers aren't clear on the gospel, and that's where we need to start evangelism efforts.  As for the North - he described the narrative as 'tragic, rather than romantic', and that may be some distinctive.  Bishop Steven also provided a necessary balance to the earlier session, by reminding us that our salvation isn't economic, but from the Kingdom of Heaven.

Just before the lunch break, Gavin introduced how the afternoon whole session would run.  The programme said 'open space technology' - we we intrigued.  A bunch of upturned table tops were lined the front, ready for sticking up flipchart sheets.  "Here's how it goes," Gavin explained (I later learnt these rules nare specially suitable for theological reflection - or TR). "First, we agree our topics - anything that's been stirred up this morning, or that we felt was missed.  Second, we accept that in the gathering we have all the needed talent and experience to make real contributions.  Third, the law of two feet - if we're not making progress in the present group, we move to another."  He waved a marker pen, "So, who's got the first topic?"  A lady vicar sprang to her feet and spoke about a recent announcement that Northern towns in the grip of economic decline should be left to die.  "How do we bring hope and meaning in places like this?"  "You can lead group 1 on that." Gavin scribbled on the flipchart, nodding.  Having collected eight groups, we headed for lunch.

Two lovely sister in grey habits were gliding between adjacent admin offices.  I asked them if they live in, and explained my community background.  I bumped into two guys from the University of Carlisle, who similarly were engaged in a community experiment.  Lunch was sausage casserole and mash, followed by apple crumble.  And there were seconds.  "I bet you wouldn't get that if we were meeting in Winchester," I commented to three Methodists at the long oak table.  I skipped the stroll round the gardens that others had opted for, so I could familiarise myself with the format for the groups.  Fresh from our own trustee training session, I wanted to focus on key points.

"I thought Hull had low church attendance because they'd never heard the gospel," the lady vicar related.  "I took a funeral of a family man in his early 40s, and afterwards went to see his wife.  'Is there anything I can do to help...?' She replied, 'I've got rats in the garden and mice in the house; there's water running down the walls.  My two boys are up in court tomorrow and my daughter was brought home - found in a alley.  And I've had no money since the funeral.  Where would you like to start?'"  The tragic narrative.  My group (held later) concluded that sincere worship, and sharing testimonies of experiences with God created an authentic spirituality.  Gavin gathered up the flipcharted contributions, and hinted that another conference may follow.  They need it: mission hasn't really penetrated average parish consciousness.

Back at York station, I had a coffee with Joe, my grisly friend who use to come to our Jesus Centre every week.  "Had a holiday then, Joe?"  "A day at Scarborough."  "Well, York itself isn't such a bad place," I consoled.   "I stay out of the way," he muttered.  A month back I happened to be passing the Minster.  'Here,' this Yank calls over, 'Just to be clear - is this pre-war?'  I glared, an' said, 'It's pre-America.'  I just stay out of the way." 

Sheffield Praise Day

In national Church terms, the big splash for us locally is Sheffield Praise Day.  It's traditionally held about the third Saturday of October, at the International Conference Hall in Ponds Forge.  We have a coach-based evangelism/outreach campaign in the city centre for the few days leading up to the event.  Of course, it's a different experience for everyone: here's my version.

The Centre's main hall needs to be carpeted.  It's got one of those classy wooden sprung floors, with multiple multi-coloured court lines for multi-sports events.  Ponds Forge is one of the fussiest venues we hire - not necessarily a bad thing - so protecting the floor requires fine-tuning attention.  

We employ three grades of adhesive tape: first your standard black gaffer tape for sticking together the edges of the sections of carpets - that's the bit you most see.  Then special-purpose dark blue gaffer tape, used where the edge of the carpet overlaps the wooden floor - this has a different adhesive that won't cause damage.  Third, a very expensive white double-sided tape NEC (National Exhibition Centre) approved, , that goes under the carpet to prevent slipping - this goes down first.

Thursday evening, ten o'clock, finds Mark, our events manager, parking his trailer and van next to the loading doors.  Off come the rolls of carpet - dark blue, pale blue, dark grey, pale, grey, and (this year) billiard table green.  It's all ex-exhibition stuff that Mark looks out for throughout the year, and blags as needed.   Seven of us local guys have turned out to help.  It feels like a 50 meter walk to the far end of the hall, where we drop the first pile.  Then we work our way back towards the entrance.  Viv's in charge, and selects the first pieces to roll out.  They will run under the stage, and provide a straight edge for positioning the remaining sections.

 Viv entrusts me with the white tape and blue tape, and I settle up against the far wall, working across towards the banked bleacher seating.  I've brought a cushion to kneel on, a Stanley knife and a pair of black sticky gloves.  Last year, on the same task, I didn't use a cushion, and regretted it.  The rest of the guys are with Viv selecting and laying out the rolls that will match up best, by colour and then width.  Malcolm suggests to Mark, "You could have made this process simpler by numbering each piece of carpet last time."  Mark doesn't answer.

Before long, Jack and Carmino are onto the black tape finishing off, with the characteristic 'squit, squit' unpeeling noise.  I muse if this may be why it gets called duck tape.   Jack shuffles along backwards with the roll, while Carmino picks his way forward, one foot in front of the other, to stick it down.  An hour has passed, and now the process gets repetitive and more tedious.   For example, some of the carpet was first laid upside down.  Mark decides to move the colours around, so the green is all under the bleachers.
approved, that goes under the carpet to prevent slipping - this goes down first. 

Having finished the far end, I gather up the scattered rubbish and head towards the entrance end.  Viv floats around with an air of uncertainty, then pulls out a section of dark grey and replaces it.   "Jack," I call over, "am I right in thinking it was about this time we has some bottles of pop, last year?"  He grunts. 

We've all slowed down, but Mark now summarises what he'd like us to finish before we pack in, leaving him to tinker around in the morning.  With a fresh objective in view, we're more focussed.  Carmino joins me in the black tape routine.  He peels off and I stamp down.  Jack appears with a 2-litre flagon of Cola and an eight-piece pizza.  We're on the home straight.

 It's half-past-midnight when we climb into the vehicles and head homeward.  Mark will pull his van round to the carpark and crash out in the back, so he's ready to let in the rigging team early.  On Saturday the punters will arrive and enjoy the event, I imagine giving no thought to the carpet.  After all it's just like it was last year, and every Praise Day before.  I guess that's the idea.