Tonight the Methodist church we joined last Sunday held its 125th anniversary service. We gathered with the people we know from Sunday school at a table to eat chicken, which I hate to alter a good bit, skin-wise, to make it conform to my eating plan. A quartet sang "Daisy Bell", which was the kind of song we sang while car-riding when I was a boy.
One of the visiting ministers from elsewhere who attended the service appears on a videocassette lesson my class views each Sunday. It's always interesting when people morph from celluloid heroes to real-live people. The minister in question looks good on video, but rather nicer in person, which is, I suppose, the sort of thing that she'd perhaps enjoy knowing but which instead is merely one more weblog fact cast out into the void of cyberspace. My wife and I sat beside the mayor and his wife, whom we do not know, and yet, for me, despite the potential opportunity of proximity, he is rather more someone that I see on the local public access television than someone I know at all.
The lightning flashed as we drove home, too late to see Jane Tennison properly grill any prime suspects on television.