Hi again. Well, here it's December the first. We seem to get to each day ' bout twenty hours ahead of the Pacific Coast of the Americas, so don't be alarmed.
I find myself reading, on-line and for editorial purposes, an academic tome of 130,000 words on the medieval saints and the Christianization of Scandinavia and East Europe a thousand years ago. Among other exciting things, it was those bloody vikings who helped lots of missionary types to later sainthood via the classic route of martyrdom.
I'm only one fifth of the way into it, and nobody told me the blooming book would have quotations and citations in - encountered so far - nine languages not counting the changes in some languages in the past millenium.
Shucks, I'll worry about it next week. THIS week is all about the three Christmassy concerts our wee singing group and associated brass band are performing in local towns. We don't sing along with the brass players and we try to discourage them from showing up. But what can you do? It's a case of various wife and husband duos. Sing, play; play sing; play play; sing sing. Argue? Not likely. I won't even go there.
Today's singing effort was fun and well received. Bonhomie prevailed. The song numbers included a hippopotamus (the crocodile isn't until Friday) plus Santa Claus and several infant kids identified by balloons, teddy bears, pacifiers (dummies) and oddly assorted night attire. Never mind that the average age of the performers was 70+ (yes, the kids). I dunno. Someone told me I take myself too seriously.
Tomorrow, ye gods, a similar program will be performed at inland M., whereas today's was at S. by the seaside, on the fair shore of the Gulf St Vincent. A clue: tomorrow's venue means "Sweetwater Wells" in the aboriginal Nurrunga language. The Friday gig is at our regular haunt, no less than W. ("The Big W"), population 450. So now you know. If you're driving from Sydney, hop in the car NOW. It's about a two and a half day drive.