Gay Marriage and Dragons

The faint light of the dawning day brings me to consciousness, it is a quarter to eight, telepathically Norman senses my awakening and wriggles on his back in his bed, in anticipation of the breakfast that I invariably produce for him. After donning my dressing gown and slippers, I carry him into the Garden Room and settle him on my knee, as we observe the new day, Normy is quite capable of walking, but I like to massage his shoulders and rub the stiffness out of his back, before releasing him into the garden. I have no idea whether his shoulders and back are stiff after a night in bed, but mine certainly are, and the sympathetic action on him seems to work on me as well. Outside it is a grey, misty, dawn and in the field adjacent to my garden, a deer is feeding quietly, she is a doe, and perhaps quite soon, she will have one or two fawns. I know that the moment I open my patio doors, she will be off and hurdle the distant hedge in one impressive bound, so Norman and I watch her feed for a while and allow the slow cadence of the country morning to infuse our being, before making breakfast. Which is always a full English, except on Friday's. Whilst it sounds excessive, it really isn't, consisting of a single sausage, rasher of bacon, slice of black pudding, egg and a sliced tomato, probably six hundred calories in total, less than a large bowl of sugar puffs, and slow release energy that will last until lunchtime. After breakfast and a shower, I walk Normy down to the little bridge over the dyke, it is a cloudy, misty, morning, but not cold and the mist may well burn off later in the day. On our way home I let him off the lead and we play " praise and pat", until we arrive back at the bungalow. I phone Leslie, en route, but he has had a bad night and doesn't feel up to a visit. Before leaving for ten thirty mass, I hang my coloured washing on the line, and then drive into town in good time, as I don't want to repeat last weeks experience. I park at Tesco's, as I need some shopping after church, and then walk the quarter mile to Saint John's, arriving to a packed church, five minutes before the service starts. It is the third advent Sunday, and Father Roy and Father David, are both adorned in festive pink vestments. My thoughts are drawn to the parents of the children murdered in Connecticut, and I wonder how I would feel if Louis' class had been cut down in such a way. All those little angels and shepherds from last week's nativity play! Such immense suffering has to be put to good effect, perhaps to change the gun laws in America. Father Roy and the church are more exercised by the Governments move to legalise same sex marriage, and whilst it is botched, undemocratic and badly handled, the direction towards tolerance and inclusivity, is surely Christian in it's instincts. Heterosexual marriage isn't being prohibited, or in any way denigrated, to me it seems as if patriarchal, Abrahamic, Old Testament prejudices, and instincts are being defended with unseemly fervour. Perhaps the Taliban lives in our midst, and yet I have profound regard and affection for Father Roy, who obviously has deep sentiments on this subject. After Mass, I do a little grocery shopping and then receive a text from Sarah, she would like me to look after Louis, whilst she cleans the house for Xmas. I collect him at one o'clock and then drive back to Tickton where I prepare lunch, it is always easy feeding Louis impromptu, Parma ham, Chorizo, smoked cheese, olives and crusty bread, never fail to please him. He scours eBay on my iPad, looking for Xmas toys, whilst I prepare lunch, and then we eat together, Norman getting by with dry dog food and the odd titbits of leftovers. Afterwards we dress warmly and then head for the Westwood, arriving shortly after two, it is a fine day, the mist has burnt off and a late winter sun hovers above the horizon. We skirt the edges of Newbegin Pits, scrambling up and down the banking, with Norman faithfully dogging our footsteps, his new, blue coat becoming increasingly soiled and muddy. As we emerge onto the common, I tell Louis that we have to get to Black Mill before sunset, in order to achieve sanctuary, as the dragons start to hunt between sunset and darkness. It is now a quarter past three and sunset is a little over twenty minutes away, he heads off towards the setting sun and Black Mill, with Norman and I trailing behind him. He knows it is only a game, in the same way that he knows that superheroes are not real, but a child's imagination and the power of the mythos, is not to be underestimated. We arrive in the shadow of Black Mill with only minutes to spare, I instruct him to touch the black, tar coated bricks, to confer immunity from predation by dragons, and he then runs to grab Norman and touch his paws onto the dark walls before the sun sets. Afterwards we walk round the gorse bushes to our West, before returning down the valley, that leads us back to Newbald Road. Any landscape in the twilight assumes a spooky feeling, and the Westwood duly obliges, a crescent moon, hanging above the looming prescience of the Mill. We return to the car as darkness settles, it is low on diesel, and by the time we have filled up, it is time to take Louis home, we have had a lovely afternoon. Sarah has just finished cleaning when we arrive and dispatched Alice to bring a takeaway tea home, I leave Louis and then drive home myself. My washing, which I gathered in before leaving for the Westwood, was still very damp, so I set it to dry on the radiators, before making oatcakes and Camembert for tea. (Roast beef dinner can wait until tomorrow! ) Afterwards I read the Observer, but the vast majority is either stuff I have heard on the BBC or ephemera to do with Christmas. They are really missing a trick, with less time sensitive, but more in depth, commentary and analysis being an arena in which they could add real value. To bed for ten.