A tale of three cakes…

If you’ve read my most recent post, this will be quite a contrast. I don’t apologise for this. I feel it’s high time that I got back into my more ridiculous blogging style of yore, if only to raise the mood a little…

Many years ago, when I worked in a workplace that had run a very successful and competitive cake-based competition for several months, a dear colleague presented me with a copy of Mary Berry’s ‘Foolproof Cakes’ on my birthday. The inside page bears the inscription: “Happy birthday Liz! Thought this might help your quest to become CMS cake queen!”

I won my round of the office bake off, but I can’t remember if the recipe I used was from that particular volume. [It was a Victoria Sponge with a swirl of raspberry coolis in the lower layer, with fresh cream & raspberries in the middle.] In fact, it’s only been in the last year or so that I’ve realised that this volume is effectively a bible for the home baker – anyone who’s watched Mary Berry in action on GBBO knows that she is the fount of all knowledge when it comes to cake, and so far, she’s yet to let me down…

Welcome Home Serenna

Baby Serenna’s welcome home cake – a Berry Victoria Sponge turned lemon drizzle… 

Watching a lot of Mary Berry baking shows has provided me with an encyclopaedia of cake based knowledge, much of which I haven’t put into practice. But I do whip it out in conversation every so often, which can result in me having a better reputation for my baking than might otherwise be deserved – although, when the chips are down, I can generally bake a pretty good cake.

I can only imagine that it was a conversation along these lines, around a table with much vin rouge at Chateau Duffy this Easter, that resulted in my friend Helen making a request. Helen lives in St Denis, and was bemoaning the lack of English cakes locally – the kind that in Britain, you could pick up from a bake sale or local WI stall or even a local bakery. Yes, France does choux very well, but sponge? Not so much. Add to the mix the fact that Helen’s oven is a range (which Mary Berry has taught me does not do temperature consistency very well), and it becomes tricky for her to bake them herself. So, apparently, I offered to bring her a cake the next time I visited – and promptly completely forgot all about it.

Cue a Facebook comment 36 hours before I was due to depart for June’s trip, which had me scurrying to the Berry Bible. Apparently I hadn’t promised any old cake, I’d specifically offered a coffee & walnut one – which is odd, as it’s a cake I detest on account of my dislike for coffee. The Berry Bible’s only coffee based recipe was in fact a cappuccino cake: chocolate sponge with a coffee & fresh cream filling. The latter wasn’t going to be practical for a full day’s journey on strike-ridden French trains, but a simple coffee buttercream could suffice. There was a tin into which it would neatly fit, and my suitcase had room, so we were good to go – the only risk being my getting stranded somewhere on a train to nowhere and needing to use the cake as leverage to reach Limoges…

The cake caused a little consternation on Facebook. Was I really intending to travel all the way from Highbury, via Eurostar, an hour’s walk in Parisian rain, an SNCF train and then car to St Denis?? Yep. Did I think it would make it intact? Well, if it did, it would be a bonus!

Incredibly, it was pretty much fine:

Upon presentation of the cake, I was given a pair of sandwich tins and I trotted off having promised to make another one in our gite’s decent looking oven over the course of the next 8 days. Inevitably, I got distracted by fun, mud and more fun, until it was our last whole day and I realised I still had cake to make. Oh, and it was someone on the trip’s birthday, so obviously a cake was needed for him too.

Mary Berry has not made any baking shows about the challenges of making cakes in foreign countries. There was very little in my store of baking knowledge relating to important things like the ratio of baking powder needed for French flour. And this, most probably, is where my downfall arose…

I set off to make two Victoria Sponges. A cake I can make confidently and quickly – I had everything I needed (apart from the moment when I realised I’d forgotten the baking powder and then had to make an emergency trip out for more). I used the ratio of baking powder needed for our plain flour in the UK and put the first two layers in the oven where they rose, and went golden…and then sank. Horribly. I was peeved, but perhaps someone had opened the door to peek in & let in cold air? I’d have another go with the next cake. But the same thing happened again.

The lovely Helen took a look at what I’d produced and, having made the rather damming comment that “I could have made cakes that look like that in my oven!”, proceeded to suggest that I just pile all four cakes together in an attempt to make a semi decent birthday cake. She even suggested she try and find M&Ms to fill the holes between the layers – y’know, to try and make the dents look intentional…

In the end, I hid myself in a quiet corner of the gite and got to work with a jar of jam, a box of icing sugar, some butter and a hand-mixer. Buttercream was made, and a first attempt was made to make something that looked halfway presentable as a birthday cake. This was where that got me:

Disastrous Cake

This, my friends, is not something that deserves to have Mary Berry’s name anywhere near it! In fact, it ranks as probably the worst cake I have created since I was 9 years old. Brilliantly, by this point in the day, I was actually quite relaxed about the whole thing. [Previously, I have been known to throw cake disasters onto the floor and stamp on them.] In fact, it was with laughter that I drew a couple of people into my hideaway to get their response – which was effectively gales of laughter.

Trench

The trench – pre pipe laying.

With only a minimal quantity of icing sugar left, covering the whole thing in frosting was not an option, but when someone suggested that the whole in the middle was reminiscent of the trench we’d been digging on site, I was seized with inspiration. Cut a trench across the top, use jam as mud, turn colourful paper straws into pipe conduits, and use the offcuts as piles of rock and voila! A Chateau Duffy themed birthday cake:

Chateau Duffy birthday cake

The spoons would be spades, obviously…

If ever there was a cake that could possibly be something akin to a GBBO showstopper, this was it – but in true Chateau Duffy style, it was somewhat ramshackle; things had escalated slightly out of control; and nothing had really gone quite to plan. Still, served in semi-darkness with a bunch of candles on top of it, it served its purpose. And, in the words of a 7 year old present: “Liz, this cake is really tasty” – so at least it was edible, which is the most important thing.

The lesson learned from this experience? Do not rest on one’s baking laurels. A different oven is a bad enough risk, let alone a different country, complete with language barrier and foreign flour. There really is only so far Mary Berry can get you.

We have far more in common than that which divides us

I’ve never been one for posting the text of sermons on my blog (although I’ve been considering it for a while – if only to generate content!), but a sermon I preached yesterday has been requested by a few people, so I felt this would be a good thing to share more widely…

Luke 9:51-62 – We have far more in common than that which divides us

Christ Church Highbury, June 26th 2016

I read this passage on Monday, as I began to prepare for this morning, trying to work out what angle I might preach upon. It took me a while, in fact, it wasn’t until Wednesday when I felt God speak very clearly. It was my turn to lead assembly at St John’s, our primary school, and the topic for this week was ‘the Bible and refugees’. I’d spent some time wondering how to cover it in under 10 minutes, for children aged 4-11 – it was a tough call, but ultimately I focused upon the really clear message from God and Jesus that all strangers should be welcomed and that we should love our neighbour as ourselves.

I left school after assembly and went straight to Trafalgar Square for the memorial to MP Jo Cox on what would have been her 42nd birthday. It was a beautiful outpouring of love and unity in the face of such a terrible tragedy. I, along with most of the others present, let tears run down our cheeks as her husband spoke movingly about his loss; listened to her son’s classmates singing about justice and heard Malala speak of the importance of unity.

The juxtaposition of these two events brought home to me the relevance this week of the first half of this passage, where Jesus and his disciples faced opposition from Samaria. As the week has worn on, particularly with the results of the referendum, they have increased in importance!

***

Verses 52-55 reads:

“And he sent messengers on ahead, who went into a Samaritan village to get things ready for him; 53 but the people there did not welcome him, because he was heading for Jerusalem. 54 When the disciples James and John saw this, they asked, ‘Lord, do you want us to call fire down from heaven to destroy them?’ 55 But Jesus turned and rebuked them.” 

To put this into context, as the story of the Good Samaritan so clearly shows us, the Samaritans and the Jews were deeply opposed. This opposition dates back to the division of Israel into two kingdoms – Israel in the north, whose capital was Samaria; and Judah in the south. Both nations were invaded and their inhabitants enslaved. When the former inhabitants of the south were permitted to return and to rebuild Jerusalem, the northern kingdom opposed this repatriation and tried to undermine the nation’s rebuilding. This was approximately 500 years before Christ’s birth, so by the time of the encounter we’ve just heard, the divisions were long entrenched and deeply bitter.

The Samaritans weren’t too different from the Jews – they came from the same ancestral roots and shared scriptures. One commentary writer has suggested that the reason why the Gospels & Acts feature so many encounters with Samaritans is because it’s: “not the person from the radically different culture on the other side of the world that is hardest to love, but the nearby neighbour whose skin colour, language, rituals, values, ancestry, history, and customs are different from one’s own.”

The very first verse of today’s passage states that Jesus has resolutely set out towards Jerusalem. On the one hand, this is an indication that a new phase of his ministry has begun as he heads towards the city at the heart of the authority that will oppose him and ultimately sentence him to death. But it is also another red flag for the Samaritans, owing to their belief that the temple should be in Samaria, not Jerusalem.

Jesus knew that travelling to Jerusalem would bring him into conflict before he even reached the city – that he would not be received well by some of the towns and villages through which he and his disciples passed through. But he did it anyway, echoing the words of Isaiah 50:7 “Therefore have I set my face like flint, and I know I will not be put to shame.”

***

Jesus behaved with grace and humility in the face of opposition. He did the right thing – sending messengers ahead to the Samaritan village instead of going directly there. Jesus wasn’t looking to deliberately offend the Samaritans – to rub his faith and ethnicity in their faces – he was simply heading towards the most convenient point on his journey to spend the night. But his civility was not returned.

His disciples are angered by the reception they received. They understood who Jesus was and held him in high honour and were therefore understandably upset that others did not see this. They also clearly understood the power Christ had as God’s son – asking Jesus whether he wanted them to call down fire from heaven to destroy them!

But Jesus? Jesus stood firm and said no, rebuking the disciples for their careless words. Jesus’ actions embodied his message: that the Son of God had come to save all, not to destroy. And that therefore he went peacefully to another village.

***

I expect that, had Jesus been one of the MPs present in the House of Commons when Jo Cox gave her maiden speech he would have cheered loudly, as her message so embodies what he might have said to the disciples regarding the Samaritans.

These words, which were not given the attention they deserved a year ago, are now something which – particularly after Friday – we should all be holding onto: “We are far more united and have far more in common than that which divides us.”

Jews and Samaritans were divided by 500 years of history and a disagreement regarding the geographical centre of their faith. Our society has faced divisions again and again: immigrant versus ‘British’; rich versus poor; north versus south; London versus everywhere else; England versus Northern Ireland, Scotland & Wales; Remain versus In. And now we have percentages too: 48 versus 52.

As I look out at you all this morning, I have a fair idea that most of you will be hurting, grieving and confused at what has happened in our nation over the last few days. After all, this borough had one of the highest remain votes in the country. But that doesn’t mean that all of us in this room share the same views either.

***

To use a very clichéd response that I’ve seen tweeted by various Christians on Twitter – there is one thing that does remain: love.

It may be a cliché, but it’s true. And it was love that turned Jesus’ towards Jerusalem, and onto another village when the Samaritans rejected him. It was love that made him rebuke the disciples for suggesting destruction.

Jesus’ love was and is sacrificial. He set his sights upon Jerusalem, knowing the fate that awaited him there – just earlier in this same chapter of Luke he had predicted his own death. Sacrifice is also what he asked of his followers – as the second half of this morning’s passage lays out. We shouldn’t be surprised by that, we all have experience of making sacrifices out of our love for others. It might be the sleepless nights after a child is born; moving house for the sake of a job; taking a less well paid role because of your passion for it…the list is endless.

It was love that I felt most of all as I attended Wednesday’s memorial. I didn’t know Jo Cox personally, although I’d heard a little about her through friends involved in politics and humanitarian work. As I stood amongst the 10,000  strong crowd, I was struck by the way in which love motivated them. I’ve found myself saying to a few people that I felt desperately sad about her murder not just because of the waste of life and the impact it will have upon her children, but because she was ‘one of my people’. By which I mean that her life and work were motivated by love and a passion for justice. It’s no coincidence that in that crowd on Wednesday I kept bumping into friends – friends from my days working in Christian mission and development charities; friends from the world of NGOs; politically active friends and fellow clergy. People do not work or get involved in those worlds without having a deep love for others and a passion to bring about justice, no matter what sacrifices are involved.

It’s also no coincidence that the vicar of a church in Jo Cox’s constituency said at a vigil immediately after her murder that she was a ‘modern day good Samaritan’. Jo, like so many others working in politics, relief work and war zones saw divisions but didn’t let it get in the way of showing love where it was so desperately needed.

The Jews and the Samaritans were not radically different and nor are our differences. The differences of language, nation of birth, voting preference are small things compared to what we have in common. We are all children of God, made in his image, loved by him and blessed with a love to share with all. As Paul wrote to the Galatians, in Christ there is no slave or free, Greek or Jew, man or woman – we are all one.

Before I finish with a prayer, I want to share some of the words that Jo Cox’s sister, Kim Leadbeater, spoke on Wednesday: “My sister would want her murder to mobilise people to get on with things, to try and make a positive difference in whatever way we can, to come together and unite against hate and division and fight instead for inclusion, love and unity.”

The message on Wednesday was ‘to love like Jo’. Jo loved in the way that Jesus calls us to. Without barriers, without prejudice and without inciting hatred. And that is what our world desperately needs right now.

Prayer of reconciliation:

“Guide our nation in the coming days through the inspiration of your Spirit, that understanding may put an end to discord and all bitterness.

“Give us grace to rebuild bonds of trust that together we may work for the dignity and flourishing of all; through Jesus Christ our Lord.”

jo-cox-memorial

Divinely ordained present giving

For those in the church, we are rapidly heading towards the season in which hundreds of people are ordained into the ministry. In the Church of England, this is usually at Petertide (the end of June/beginning of July in regular parlance) while for Methodists it’s at the annual conference held at almost exactly the same time. Like baptisms and confirmations, ordination is a time for cards (and, if so inclined) gifts. The problem is, as with other religious occasions, the type of fare offered commercially is a little on the cheesy side – so thinking outside the box is imperative.

As someone who got done last year, and who has also (by virtue of being the kind of person I am) known a lot of friends/family to get ordained, I have much experience in this field – so I thought I’d share some wisdom. [Note: I happen to have my ordination as priest next month. This post is in NO way a wishlist for that occasion – presents are not required! But lovely, obviously…]

1. Cards

Christian cards are generally naff, plus, unlike baptisms and confirmations, you’re unlikely to find ordination cards anywhere but Christian bookshops/cathedral shops. That’s ok. The occasion is not in the least bit diminished if the card does not bear the word ‘ordination’ on the front of it. I believe that you can write it on the inside instead…

Dave Walker ordination

In the past, I’ve had permission from the lovely Dave Walker to use one of his cartoons as the basis for a card. (Which is what I did for my year at college when I didn’t get ordained with them.) Or, you could craft your own. What I think is brilliantly effective though, is a card bearing an image of the place where the ordination is happening or the region to which they will be serving. I received loads of St Paul’s cathedral cards – which now form part of a London gallery on my living room wall. (All the others are in a journal from my ordination retreat, so think carefully about what you write in your card as it’s likely to be treasured.)

London gallery wall(Yes, I am aware that some of these are wonky. It’s been fixed.)

2. The ordination retreat

Some people reading this know of my long journey to ordination and the trauma that was involved. Getting to my pre-ordination retreat was nothing short of a miracle from an ever-faithful God!! Just before my retreat, I received a parcel from a college friend that contained a package or envelope to be opened on each day that I was sequestered. It was amazing! It contained spiritual things (cards, prayers) as well as comforting things for a time that was quite stressful – like a G&T lip balm and chocolate. Plus a gorgeous pair of earrings that I wore to the ordination. Other people sent cards to be opened on retreat (including one that was slipped under my door by a friend who lived down the road from the retreat centre) and others that were waiting for me when I arrived.

Tess' retreat giftsGifts from Tess.

3. Ordination gifts

There are lots of things to say about gifts. Firstly, they are an added bonus!! Also, if you’re a friend of mine, please do not get offended if I don’t mention your gift from last year! I had lots of amazing gifts, many of which were personal to me and my interests, so don’t necessarily need to be recommended here. What follows are purely suggestions, but hopefully might provide some inspiration if you’re stuck for ideas!

Gifts inspired by the location of the ordination. For Anglicans at least, the place in which they are ordained holds great significance, so (as with cards) can provide great inspiration for presents. This might take the form of a picture, or something even more creative – like the necklace given to me by my missional community that bears the coordinates of St Paul’s Cathedral.

Comfort Station NecklaceAmazing gift accompanied by hand-drawn depiction of St Paul’s. I have awesome friends.

Anything connected to Dave Walker’s fabulous Church Times cartoons. (Although you may need to be wary as any ordinand worth their salt would already have some items!) There are: books, calendars, mugs (these are new-ish and there are 11 designs to choose from – they couldn’t possibly have all of them!) and tea towels.

Something practical. I would suggest that, unless you’ve had a prior conversation with the ordinand, you do not buy them a piece of liturgical dress – like a stole. These items are highly personal and often planned long in advance of the ordination. [Disclaimer: I was given a Fijian stole by a close family friend and it’s lovely – I have a plan for it – but my white ordination stole was a legacy from my mother and has a very special story attached to it.] But, a genius gift took the form of ‘Revd Liz Clutterbuck’ name tapes complete with rainbow lettering! Clergy vestries are confusing places and our vestments cupboard contained items belonging to four or five different people when I started work!

Clerical nametapesWho knew you could need nametapes in adult life too?!

Books. Do not buy them a Bible! Any self-respecting ordinand will have Bibles coming out of their ears by this point (and is likely to be given one by the diocese too), so unless they’ve asked for a specific translation/edition, don’t do it. What may be useful, but is worth checking, is whether they’d like liturgical books – Church House Bookshop do an ordinand bundle deal for Church of England ordinands, but you can usually only get it as the ordinand themself – but offering to pay might be a nice thing. (Although it’s covered by ordination grants if they get one.) Ordinands: set up a wishlist if there are particular books or commentaries you’d like. Don’t be bashful – it’s better to have something ready in answer to the question of ‘what would you like for your ordination’ than ending up with multiple commentaries on the book of Revelation! Friends of ordinands: if there’s been a particularly meaningful book in your spiritual journey, that could be a great gift.

Sustenance for their time off. I don’t mean food, I mean the ability to enjoy their time off well. One friend was given some money when they started theological college that was specifically so she could buy gin – and it’s been a great help to her! There are all sorts of subscription services that could be an excellent comfort to the newly ordained – from gin, to tea, via magazines (not Christian ones!), music, cinema tickets or a niche membership (in London, a membership for the South Bank, BFI or similar is a boon!). Life after ordination takes adjusting to and time off is just as important as time on!

Boomf OrdinationMarshmallow ordination goodness. Brilliant.

Post-ordination gifts. You don’t need to give the present on the day! Lovely photos from a special day make a great gift, or you could get creative with your photos. My friend Jenni went with photos of my ordination (and first week at church) on marshmallows. Yes, marshmallows! (Courtesy of Boomf.) I can testify to their being tasty too.

Hopefully something amongst the above will have proved to be inspiration for the ordinand in your life! To be honest, your presence will be present enough – and if you’re not at the service, your prayers will be appreciated enormously.

Huge thanks go to my incredible friends and family whose generosity, love and sense of humour ensured that I had something to suggest on this topic in the first place!! [Remember: priesting gifts = not essential!]

Queen Victoria

Oh the double-edged sword of the Guardian news alert. Sometimes helpful, sometimes intriguing [recently a night out dancing was enhanced by “Iain Duncan-Smith resigns” flashing up and generating much speculation], and at times just utterly heart breaking.

The latter mostly includes their death announcements – which is how I’ve heard of the passing of several idols and inspirations in recent years: Mandela, Rickman and today, Victoria Wood. Victoria flipping Wood. The woman who categorically shaped comedy in the household in which I grew up. Red cabbage can’t be mentioned without a cry of “how much?” rising up from at least one person. Soup can’t be served without a shaky “one soup…two soup”. And nothing – I repeat nothing – featuring Wood would ever be skipped should it be on TV.

Twitter is ablaze at the moment, obviously; and I have a lot of thoughts, obviously. So I thought I’d get them all down now, cathartic fashion. But can I do Victoria Wood justice, can I buffalo!

1. I saw Victoria Wood in real life once. (That it was only once is probably surprising as she did live locally). It was the early 90s, and I had been taken shoe shopping in the children’s shoe shop in Muswell Hill. The shop was crowded (it sold Start Rite, Muswell Hill mums love Start Rite) and we were reaching the end of the shoe trying-on ordeal when my mum hissed “Don’t look, but Victoria Wood’s just walked in.” As one, my sister and I looked. Come on! She was our comedy idol! We proceeded to watch her child try on sandals. It was thrilling.

2. In the early 1990s, our church’s annual harvest supper had to be rescheduled because a large group of women had booked tickets to see Wood at the Royal Albert Hall. I think if Wood had known that, it could have sowed the seed for an exceptionally brilliant sketch. (I believe my sister and I were rather peeved that we weren’t allowed to go!)

3. There’s the fact that, despite its possibly questionable content, the tape featuring The Ballad of Barry and Freda was regularly played on long car journeys when I was definitely under 11. I didn’t get it, but I knew it was funny. That cassette later came my way via CD and is still an album that I go back to in iTunes. Saturday Night would be a particular favourite.

4. Even her serious (or more serious stuff) caused comedic moments. Over Christmas 2014, when the TV version of her play The Day We Sang aired, barely a few hours would pass before you heard a parent chirp “Nymphs and shepherds ru-un away, run away, run away…” in varying degrees of tunefulness (directly proportional to the amount of prosecco that had been consumed).

5. She was a funny woman who talked about real life. Actual real life, not aspirational real life. True, as a softy southerner not all of it made sense, but a lot of it did. Like the Sacherelle sketch… [Incidentally, I’m convinced that in this clip, you can spot Victoria Coren with her father at 1:16]

6. Very recently, I had the joy of discovering on YouTube a whole series of Victoria Wood programmes I’d never seen before – We’d Like to Apologise – which was a feast of 90’s nostalgia, classic Wood co-stars, and brilliant comedy. Episode three, ‘Over to Pam’, in which Julie Walters plays daytime TV host Pam and where Victoria plays a version of herself, is sheer genius.

7. Everyone loved her. Including the best celebrities, who seemed to be queuing up around the block to be in one of her sketches. I think I got to the series mentioned above thanks to a bit of Rickman YouTubing. Rickman acting Woods’ scripts. Too, too much.

Or, as one sketch had it, Alan Dickman


8. She has ensured that I never ever take Ann Widdecombe seriously.

9. She brought Julie Walters into my life. In fact, as a child, I was convinced that Walters was an old woman – I was very confused when I saw her on TV as herself. Mrs Overall and the assortment of other elderly ladies Wood wrote for Walters are utterly fabulous, but I do love the occasions when she was allowed to play her own age, or younger. Like the hairdresser no one would ever want near their hair.

10. When she appeared on Comic Relief Bake Off last year, her showstopper was a beret – a nod to her brilliant sketch in which Kimberley is continually sought by her beret wearing chum. “She’s really really tall and really really wide…”  I’ve spent ages hunting for this clip this evening, having discovered a previous sharing of it had been removed by ITV. But thankfully, minutes ago, someone reposted it. It says a huge amount about Wood’s brilliance that her most famous character is someone we never ever see!

Oh goodness. Too, too soon. It says a lot of our love for Victoria Wood that my Dad has emailed from Samoa to check that the women of the family are ok. Like many, we’re mourning all that should have been to come: more plays, more sketches, more catchphrases. But no. At least there’s plenty to re-watch. I’m spending the evening watching her 2010 BAFTA tribute and enjoying the fact that at least it wasn’t an obituary when it was made.

Love Twitter? I do.

Twitter @lizclutterbuck

A week ago, I sat in the bar at the BFI having drinks with three other women, only one of whom I’d met in the flesh before. But she, and another at the table, were people with whom I’d conversed regularly in recent weeks – thanks to Twitter.

Thanks to Twitter, I knew we were heading to the same event. Thanks to Twitter we weren’t starting with a completely blank page, conversation wise. Really, it was thanks to Twitter that I was there at all – because it was Twitter that really got the whole Wittertainment ridiculousness going.

Last week was not the first time that I’ve socialised in this way. Getting to know strangers on Twitter has led to a lunch at the Gherkin; pie at Piminster; meeting up with prospective students at college open days (or just coffee to talk vocation); and much more…

Exciting things have happened thanks to Twitter. Like giving this blog a wider audience (back in the days when posting was much more frequent!) which in turn led to a week in Uganda with Tearfund three years ago. That ongoing relationship with Tearfund took me up to the top of BT Tower a few months later for a DEC appeal Twitter Q&A. It’s connected me with an amazing network of support. Like the outpouring of affirmation of women in ministry that flowed tweet after tweet after the ‘no’ to women bishops back in 2012, and has continued through the ‘yes’, the ordinations, and still knocks again and again at the stained glass ceiling of patriarchy in the church. During the difficult days of curacy hunting in 2014 and 2015, Twitter was there with support from friends and strangers alike. Look down my ‘likes’ tab (still not over that move from favourite btw) and the ones that stay there (rather than simply being bookmarks) are those that I like to go back to on occasions when I need a bit of encouragement. Oh, and once I won cake from the Hummingbird Bakery…

There are many worthy things that have emerged from my use of Twitter, but there are plenty of less worthy things (like the cake). Twitter is a brilliantly level playing field. Unlike Facebook, it gives you direct access to people you wouldn’t otherwise be able to communicate with. I love the immature shudder of excitement that a tweet from a Twitter celebrity elicits. I can’t remember when it first happened, but I do recall some gloating with a friend when a Christian celebrity (it’s a niche genre) tweeted me for the first time. [Ironically, that person is now someone I also count as a friend. Thanks Twitter!]

There was the week the fabulous Hadley Freeman finally joined, and we had a conversation about how much my Dad loved her fashion column. Or the day my mum sent Chris Addison (the comedian/satirist) a very funny tweet, thinking that he was my colleague Christopher – and got retweeted! Or when my 12 year old self’s musical theatre hero favourited a tweet of mine. Or the fact that the lovely Mark Kermode was officially the first person to wish me a happy new year in 2016. I haven’t yet achieved the delights of a Caitlin Moran tweet, but I did once get favourited by Lauren Laverne, so that helps… [It’s the little things!]

I’ve used Twitter for work – crowdsourcing ideas for all-age talks; book recommendations; and making connections with other researchers in my field. It’s a place where I’ve supported and encouraged other people going through the ordination journey. In fact, I know at least two people who ended up studying at St Mellitus after Twitter interactions in which I recommended it! (Obviously, I am not entirely responsible! I just planted a seed…)

And most of all, I’ve used Twitter for fun. I’ve laughed at cats and cute children. I’ve procrastinated for hours and hours (it’s somewhat miraculous that I’ve acquired two degrees during my 6 and a bit years tweeting). I have giggled over tweets from lovely men and put two and two together and made about a billion. I have met people who share the same niche passions as me – like Chalet School books and the weird world of Elinor M Brent Dyer. And I love that relationships formed over ridiculous children’s books go deeper, despite never having met, so that when bad stuff happens, we care for one another. That, my friends, is what Twitter does brilliantly.

This has been very me-centred, but I know that Twitter has does the same for others. People house bound with illness, who have been able to communicate and make new friends thanks to 140 character messages. Those who have moved to a new location and found Twitter’s hyper-locality to be a massive boon. On Twitter you’re never alone – just look at Sarah Millican’s fabulous #joinin initiative over Christmas and New Year. It’s not about narcissism, it’s about togetherness.

Twitter-cake-1024x683Credit

In spite of all this brilliant stuff, lately, many eulogies have been written for Twitter. User numbers have fallen for the first time. Revenue isn’t what was anticipated. Ridiculous ideas have been proposed (10,000 character limit? I think not!) and Twitter is still categorically failing at dealing with trolling and abuse. At ten years old today, it’s almost at veteran status in the online world.

I don’t want to witness the death of Twitter, especially when there’s simply nothing comparable elsewhere on the internet. It has enriched my life beyond my wildest dreams and is place I have much greater fondness for than Facebook or Instagram. When I read Timehop of a morning, I sometimes wish we could return to Twitter’s haclyon days of 2010 and 2011, when everyone seemed to be engaged in witty reparté. It’s unlikely we’ll ever get that back, but I’m hopeful that things will improve and that this social media leveller will carry on doing its thing. At least until a real replacement gets going.

Discovering your family’s twin…

It’s not uncommon to discover that those with whom you become friends in later life have had an upbringing similar to your own – like attracts like after all. But there are occasions on which this fleeting similarity turns into a vision of an almost identical childhood, and quite frankly, there is one particular set of friends where the similarities are now spooky. It’s less “Oh! How funny! We had that too!” and more “Ah, ok, yes we had exactly the same thing…again.”

The Kilverts and the Clutterbucks have known each other in some form since 1997. Clutterbuck Maximus (myself) and Kilvert Maximus (Jenni) met through singing, and our younger siblings joined the happy singing throng a year or two later. It’s been nearly 19 years and it’s now official that we practically had exactly the same upbringing.

Minimii & MaximiiWe are so cool that in 2008 we had Minimus & Maximus hoodies created! Clutterbucks Minimus & Maximus (left), Kilverts Minimus & Maximus (right). The Morris sisters (centre) literally did share a childhood with the Kilverts…

It began with the simple things: similar values around after school activities and wholesome holiday adventures; clothes from 80’s classic retailer Clothkits; and a lack of frivolous games (looking at you Mr Frosty). It’s the kind of thing Buzzfeed could turn into a listicle, which if posted on Facebook would garner likes from a good number of friends.

Then it turned out that on more than one occasion, there was the possibility that we would actually have grown up together. In 1982 my family moved to Wealdstone in Harrow where Dad became minister of the local Methodist Church – the very one which my friends’ family had attended until a move to Harpenden a little while earlier. (This particular gem was discovered by our mothers while on the London Eye, they realised they had mutual friends as a result.) Over a decade later, there was a possible job in the very same town – it ended up not being a match, but had it been, I would have met Jenni two whole years before we actually did.

This past week featured a long discussed trip to Belfast for the Kilverts & Clutterbucks [well, the Kilvert, Clutterbuck, Barrett & Monks] – I think we’ve only been talking about it since 2004! We were fairly certain it would be a success because Belfast is wonderful, and despite them having spent less time with our parents than we have with theirs, our identical childhoods would ensure all would be fine. And it was.

As if to affirm our theory, during the trip we found physical evidence that cemented it. Our arrival coincided with the delivery of a box of photos sent by my aunt to my mum for safe keeping. [Fascinating in itself, especially due to some ridiculously strong genes that I’ve inherited.] Perusing the photos was an amusing pre-dinner activity (thank you aunt for including more than one photo of me naked in a paddling pool), not least because of a few similarities that cropped up.

First of all, photos from my third birthday, featuring an incredible Postman Pat cake, baked by my mother just hours before she went into hospital to have my sister.

Liz's Postman Pat

The Kilvert sisters recalled a similar cake baked by their mother and a text was sent to obtain photographic evidence:

Upon seeing the photo, my mother exclaimed “But we had the same dress that Gill’s wearing!” The rest of the family murmured agreement, and we (well I) carried on sorting through the box of photos. One was identified by my sister as ‘the epitome of sisterhood’ – given the disgruntled look on my face in the presence of my younger sibling.

The epitome of sisterhood

And then we realised, the dress I was wearing was the very same dress mum had identified in the Kilvert photo (albeit with the collar a bit tucked up under my chin). Voila:

One could argue that it’s simply a coincidence that is likely to emerge from being born in similar years and brought up in the same culture, but I think the Clutterbucks and Kilverts would like to see it as a sign from heaven that our friendship was always meant to be!

Oh, and we had a pretty nifty time in Belfast too. Much cake was eaten (although, as my mother commented, we never ate a whole piece – preferring to divide all cakes between us!) and the best and worst of Irish weather experienced. As always, the time passed too quickly!

Plane selfieThree of #4gotoBelfast on board their flight.

Girls at the dockEnjoying Belfast’s ‘honesty box’ cafe – The Dock – and their red-hot heating!

Girls at CausewayAt the Giant’s Causeway the day they take the postcard photos…

Giants Causeway Panorama

 

The First Nowell

There ought to be a badge for curates that declares: “I survived my first ordained Christmas!” – such is the achievement of getting through one’s very first festive season as a member of clergy. The services, the sermons, the lunches, the drinks parties, the children’s parties, the Christingle making, the carols…

I guess a part-time curate’s first Christmas could be considered slightly less of an achievement? Yes and no.

Yes, because I didn’t do the full slog of Christmas services. Thanks to still being a commuting curate, reliant upon London Transport (which ceases to exist from 9pm on Christmas Eve), I missed Midnight Mass. (Also thanks to there being two other clergy present to divide preaching and presiding between themselves.)

But I did preach my very first Christmas Day sermon – complete with photos of some gems from the Clutterbuck Nativities Collection, and a legendary pop diva in the congregation. [I kid you not on that last point. Fortunately I didn’t find out about that until after the service!] I travelled through deserted London streets courtesy of a Muslim taxi driver who spent most of the journey quizzing me on how to cook a turkey – as I’ve never cooked one, I really wasn’t much help, but did recommend Delia’s Christmas.

Inuit NativityFor some reason, the Inuit Nativity got a lot of laughs in my sermon…

Being part-time means that there’s an awful lot to pack into the two weekdays that I’m at the church. Which can have interesting consequences – like the December Wednesday when my very first school assembly (on King Herod & lying) was preceded by the over 60’s Christmas lunch. I love the over 60’s group! They’ve made me an honorary member of their coterie, and that allows me to attend their monthly lunches. The Christmas lunch was talked about for several weeks beforehand, with references to sherry and wine plentiful. On the day in question, we wrapped up our 10.30 midweek service a bit before 11.30 and immediately, out came the sherry. A particularly spritely 88 year old offered me a glass, insisting that I should have something, after all, assembly wasn’t till 3pm – I relented an asked for a very small glass. I’m not sure what a large would have looked like, as I was handed a regular wine glass that was two-thirds full of sherry! [Needless to say, it was not drained empty!]

Downside of being part-time? Missing some of the Christmas lunches. Upside? Not having quite so many enforced mince pie eating occasions!

To be honest, the biggest Christmas challenge was never going to be the work, but the fact that it was different to any other Christmas I’d had before. I’ve grown up with church-orientated Christmasses – where the priority was getting one, two, three or even four services done between Christmas Eve morning and Christmas dinner! I’ve been hauled into action on grey Christmas mornings to support parents’ leading worship – regardless of whether or not I was indulging in my semi-annual Christmas cold. But it turns out it’s rather different when it’s you that has the church to look after!

Christmas 2015 was the first Christmas I’ve ever spent away from all my family. It was the first Christmas that my parents would spend with neither daughter with them. A tad daunting, but I have amazing alternative families…

A campaign had been underway to get me to spend Christmas Day in Harpenden for over a year – and where better place to spend Christmas than with a family of people you’ve known for over half your life, and who appear to have had a near-identical upbringing! Christmas with the Kilverts was different to a Clutterbuck Christmas (fewer nativities for starters), but it was good different – including Christmas quizzing, Christmas cheese, Christmas present notebooks [still reeling from the organisation level displayed on this one], and the Queen. Yes, the Queen. For the first time IN MY LIFE I watched the Queen’s speech. And you know what? It was really rather good and something to be stored away for a future sermon illustration. Anyway, huge thanks to the Kilvert clan for trekking to Highbury on Christmas Day, being in my congregation, and then taking me home with you and making me feel so much a part of the family!!

The other alternative family was of course my London one. For a city whose population seems to flee in a mass exodus in the week leading up to Christmas, it was a surprise to discover that so many Matryoshka Haus-ites were in town over the holidays. Christmas Eve-Eve was spent enjoying great food with great company in the new building, while the following night was a lovely extended family meal at home. [Christmas: when three roast dinners in four days is considered not in the least bit excessive!] Celebrating Christmas with friends, my honorary niece & nephew [“aunty Liz” appears to be catching on as a moniker with the smallest housemates] was lovely and more than made up for the lack of actual family.

Oh, and I put Father Christmas to the test and won. Twice. Stocking gifts arrived from Belfast, and then on Christmas morning a Christmas miracle occurred! A stocking full of another set of presents arrived at my bedroom door. So it’s official, Father Christmas *does* exist!

Christmas Stocking

 

Well done fellow Deacons for surviving Christmas. Now, bring on Easter!

A grief observed

In a week when the world has mourned the loss of two great stars in the form of David Bowie and Alan Rickman, I’ve spent quite a bit of time thinking about death and how we respond to it. That’s partly thanks to having an evening of curate training at a funeral directors, and a death in the parish, as well as my own response to the celebrity deaths.

Bowie’s death was (obviously) unexpected and a shock, but I’m really the wrong generation for true Bowie affection. However, I was rather surprised by my reaction – a need to listen to his music and hear as much as I could about him – which resulted in listening to BBC 6 Music’s fantastic response en route to work. Bowie was a phenomenal talent and most people expected it to last forever. Like a few other friends, I felt like I needed to learn more about the man, his music and other creative outlets, having previously always known he was there in the background. Now he wasn’t, there was a lifetime of work to catch up on. [Apart from the obvious: Labyrinth and pretty much most of his greatest hits.]

Interestingly, the overwhelming public response to this untimely death resulted in something of a backlash against such shows of grief. Camilla Long [The Times’ journalist that my friend Rich considers to be my doppelgänger] suggested that such displays of grief on social media were insincere and that those involved should “man up”. But why? Don’t we (particularly the British population) already have a reputation of stifling emotions in an unhealthy way?

Bowie grief brixtonThe display of mourning in Brixton. (Credit)

In actual fact, up to a certain point, such displays of grief isn’t just natural, it’s beneficial. On the one hand, it’s completely justifiable to be grief-stricken for someone you never met or knew personally. When someone touches our lives through art, music, acting or writing, we feel a loss when it’s no longer there. In losing a person from this earth, we have genuinely lost something from our lives. Another facet of this grief is almost a kind of practice run for when grief hits us hard in the future. That’s not to say that the grief for a celebrity is a lesser grief, it’s just that it enables people to feel and experience emotions that they may not have felt before, and means that when a family-member or someone similarly close to them dies, they have a reference point for some of what they are feeling. Finally, it can act as a reminder of previous losses, triggering elements of the grieving process again. This is not a bad thing either. No matter how long has passed, moments of grief are still completely natural and even necessary. It’s bottling up those emotions that can lead to trouble…

These were thoughts I was composing in my head en route to a curate study day yesterday. In fact, I even thought that I might get chance to jot them down during the seminar – which I did not, because it turned out to be very interesting and useful! The last 15 minutes of the session were obliterated however, when this flashed up on my phone:

The bad news

My gasp may have been audible. There was eye contact with a fellow curate as I tried to convey the terrible news. Tweets were tweeted, a Facebook post composed, all in a sense of utter disbelief. I had not loved Bowie, but I had loved Rickman. I know exactly when it began – with this Texas video from 2000 – specifically, the moment when Spiteri and Rickman tango across the forecourt of a petrol station. Yes, by this point I would have already seen Sense & Sensibility, but this was what launched Alan Rickman into being one of my all-time favourite leading men. [I went into my favourite Rickman moments in this post from back in 2010 – which in the comments sparked a little debate regarding his allure. The refusenik was wrong!!]

Texas – In Demand. (Once seen it has to be repeated – according to those who saw it for the first time yesterday courtesy of my sharing!)

I don’t need to tell you how amazing Rickman was. I know I’m not alone in having sobbed my way through Truly, Madly, Deeply (I can vividly remember watching it for the first time and my father declaring it a soppy mess). The discerning Harry Potter fan knows that Rickman as Snape brought more to the role that could ever have been imagined – largely thanks to JK Rowling’s insight into who Snape really was. His humour. His presence. His voice. Oh, his voice! As I write, I’m watching Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince and with a mournful sigh, I noted that this voice appears for the first time at exactly 15:06 minutes in. That voice.

14-alan-rickman-roles.w529.h352(Credit.)

Yesterday, I was grieved that I would never see Rickman perform live. I would never hear that sonorous voice in the flesh. I would never get to have a conversation with him. (I know the latter is a far-fetched notion, but I have friends who have!) There are only a few unseen films left to watch before there are no more of them. The thought is a hard one to comprehend.

Chatting with a one-time classmate (and fellow Wittertainee) after our training, I found myself nearly bursting into tears at the emotion of it all – and he felt the same. I walked my favourite walk back from college, through Green Park and sat on a bench and let the tears flow. It wasn’t entirely Rickman grief, I know that, it was a heady combo of emotion; tiredness from a very busy, over-full ‘part-time’ week at work; pent up emotions about other things that needed letting out; and, interestingly, a recurrence of mourning someone else.

alan-rickman-dead-emma-thompsonYesterday, I also made the mistake of reading Emma Thompson’s goodbye to Rickman while I was on the tube. There’s nothing like tube tears for a very public display of emotion!!

That last one was a surprise, despite being well aware of the fact that I have long associated Rickman with my one-time landlady Angela – because we both loved him, but she got to meet him (and get a photo with him) at the Love Actually premiere. Every Christmas, when I do my ritual viewing of a film that I love dearly (although I know that view is controversial), I remember Angela. It’s not surprising his death prompted those thoughts, especially as they both – as did Bowie – died from the same disease.

Today, I tramped across the mud of Hampstead Heath, thoughts still very much on a Rickman-grieving plain, sorting out my head and getting some much needed downtime. [Side-note: I was in the area for physio on my special feet, but generally if I make a pilgrimage up to Hampstead, it’s for thinking purposes.] I pondered this question of grief some more…

We, as a nation and as a society, are generally rubbish at grief. It goes hand-in-hand with being a nation known to withhold emotion and affection. Public displays of grief (as long as they don’t get ridiculously out of hand) are a good thing, a healthy thing in fact. We need to have outlets to express our grief and social media is perfect for this – especially as it can be a place for solidarity, of grieving together. On Wednesday, our morning prayer group shared memories and prayers of thanksgiving for the life of the parishioner who had died. On Thursday (and today) I shared memories of favourite Rickman moments on social media. Both are good, healthy and necessary!

Tea making became truly epic when Rickman got involved…

We don’t like to talk about death. It is feared and not understood. Perhaps if we were as honest in our feelings as people have been this week, society would find itself in a much healthier place in its attitudes towards death, grief and loss.

In which I am thankful x 15

To celebrate the final day of 2015, a reflection upon that for which I am thankful in this rather mixed year… (In no particular order, lest people feel slighted.)

1. London. I celebrated the last day of the year walking several miles from Limehouse to St Paul’s. The weather was beautiful and the city looked stunning. (Though this did draw out the tourists. Anyone with me on starting a petition for a ‘tourist free path’ over Tower Bridge and along past City Hall??) Given that even 7 months ago I didn’t think that I would be staying in the capital past June, so every extra day is a definite blessing! I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I ❤️ London!

NYE London views

2.Which leads me nicely onto St Paul’s Cathedral. Getting a curacy in London Diocese meant my ordination took place at one of the UK’s (perhaps even the world’s) most iconic buildings. In the long journey to finding a church, I would often stop and pray at St Paul’s, and now, whenever I pass it or glimpse it in the distance, I remember that day and all and all that it means.

3. So I am also hugely thankful for the incumbent and community of Christ Church Highbury for giving me the opportunity to take on a slightly unconventional curacy. It’s working out really well, being a nice mixture of challenging and fun, with lovely people. Moving up to Highbury to live is on the cards for February/March, which will make life a lot easier!

Christ Church Highbury

4. While I’m very excited to be returning to the green fields of North London (once a Norf Londoner, always a Norf Londoner!), it has been a joy to score an extra 8 or 9 months with the lovely Schofields. While the hot tub they were in the process of installing when I looked around in July 2014 may still not be finished, they have, in the last year, completed a sauna in the back garden and produced the utterly adorable baby Serenna. Smaller Housemate, the now 4 year old Jacob, continues to teach me lots about cars, Octonauts and Transformers; while I teach him about baking and attempt to answer his increasingly tricky theological questions. An added bonus has been the extended family, particularly the grandparents who turned up to support the family after the baby arrived, which coincided with the week before my MA thesis was due. The days before such a deadline really should merit the same kind of support as the family of a newborn – meals cooked and cheerleading provided!

Smaller housemate & smallest housemate

5. That I have this lovely family with which to live is entirely down to the wonderful (and mad) Matryoshka Haus community, who I continue to be extremely thankful for! The community of people are brilliant and amongst my closest friends, but, at New Year, what’s even better is MH’s new base in Limehouse. This building is a Godsend in many ways. Acquired in October, it’s become the base for all things MH – community meals; co-working space for the various people working on MH tools and projects’;a location for parties; storage for many, many objects; and a space for guests to stay. It’s this latter element that was a particular blessing at New Year, when I took residence for a couple of days an had my very own introvert’s retreat. [More on this to follow.]

Matryoshka Haus houseTo explain…our first house guest took some photos of the space. (Don’t worry, he’s not actually naked in the bath!)

6. Talking of new houses, in 2015 I am also thankful for the quaint town of Tewkesbury. Home to my sister for around a decade, this town now possesses the home to which my parents will retire in 2017. For a family that has been separated by the Irish Sea since 2004, this is quite a milestone! As the family gathered at my sister’s on Boxing Day, it was a sign of years to come, when our parents will live just a few minutes up the road, instead of a flight away. Halle-flipping-lujah! [Though we will miss Belfast, because it is lovely.]

A girl and her abbeyA girl and her abbey.

7. On the subject of family, this year is also a year to be thankful for our faithful labrador Megan, who went off to chase the rabbits of heaven back in February. Very sad times. She has left a legacy though, as it’s clear from our Boxing Day walk with some friends’ gorgeous hound that this is not the end of family dog owning. No dog will quite replace Megs though. [Guarantee that at this point my mother will have had to reach for a tissue, if number 6 hadn’t done that already…]

8. To happier things! More babies! As 2015 closes, multiple friends are expecting new additions in 2016 and plenty of babies have arrived over the last 12 months. Aside from my baby housemate, the most anticipated newborn was Tobias Bede, the youngest member of the Matryoshka Haus community and an absolute cutie. He has a veritable city of people helping to raise him and has a very special mother!

Tobias meets LondonTobias meets London

9. 2015 was the year in which I finally ceased being a student at St Mellitus, after four highly memorable years. (I think there were moments when staff thought they might never get rid of me – and they very nearly didn’t!) I will never cease to be thankful for that amazing community of students and staff who supported me through some very difficult times, and who have encouraged me into doing some things that I never quite imagined I’d do! I’m very glad that I still get to go back from time to time to teach, and would love 2016 to see a slight re-arrangement of my week so that perhaps I can make it a more regular thing. We’ll see what God does about that…

St Jude's in springSt Jude’s on a beautiful spring day

10. In celebration of no longer being a student, I took myself off on a well-deserved break to the States, so I am thankful for New York and Vermont and all the fun had there. A special thanks goes to St Lydia’s for making me feel so welcome, and giving me the basis for an exciting plan for 2016…

11. New York & Vermont were only possible thanks to friends living in interesting places! Thank goodness for staying in touch with excellent people who are lots of fun!

12. On the subject of friends, I continue to be exceedingly thankful for friends who send reassuring messages, call, or even pop something in the post (looking at you Wendy, with your PB Oreos…). I should post particular thanks to whoever sent two items anonymously to me in the last few months [it’s not creepy, it’s touching!]. There are few friends that I am more thankful for than those with whom I spent Big Cottage with. Great people. Great fun. Great cottage. Oh, and I’m thankful that within these friends is a family so like my own that they let me spend Christmas with them! [Returning to that one another time too…]

Big Cottage Two

13. Great friends also = great theatre buddies. This same crew were on it in terms of West End viewing in 2015 (God bless Jenni and her organisational skills). Gypsy starring Imelda Staunton was hands-down the best theatre I’ve seen this year. I finally got to see Carrie the Musical (sooooo good!) and was mightily peeved that tickets for Funny Girl clashed with Thanksgiving, but perhaps I’ll get to see it in 2016…

14. The great ship Wittertainment. I don’t think I really need explain why – if you know me, yet don’t know the story, just read this and then this.

15. Avocados. They’re amazing.

Yes, 2015: the year I got ordained and finally enjoyed eating avocado. Profound and ridiculous!

An alternative church

There is an alternative church. One which is global, diverse, and to which all are welcome. One that upholds a code of behaviour, as determined by its leaders and members. Occasionally, it claims the credit for miraculous healings. There are rituals and language incomprehensible to the uninitiated. It meets on a weekly basis, but its teaching permeates the day-to-day lives of its congregants too. 

Unlike the Body of Christ, its leaders cannot said to be God (nor do they aspire to be). It doesn’t offer the forgiveness of sins, nor does it hold the imbibing of certain substances to be holy. But there is a warmth of community, and a sense of communal purpose. 

The church is actually not so much an alternative as a complementary one. In a venn diagram of the members of the church of Wittertainment (founded by Mark Kermode & Simon Mayo) and those of the venerable Church of England, a not inconsiderable number would be in the overlap.

I over-egg the comparison somewhat, but the Church of Wittertainment does have its similarities to the church that ordained me back in July. And it was that ordination, and an email I sent in, that has brought out these characteristics in recent months…

My earlier blogpost chronicled the immediate aftermath of my moment of Wittertainment ‘fame’ (someone else’s word, not mine!) six months ago. I thought things would die down after the initial flurry of new followers on Twitter from the congregation; the random tweets from random people; and messages from friends of friends on Facebook, including ‘Colonial Commoners‘ far away in New Zealand.

The first weeks in my new clergy role (having tried to explain the saga to my rather baffled training incumbent) elicited some classic Wittertainment responses on Twitter – particularly on the day I was asked in a staff meeting if I knew how to do a baptism. Cue multiple responses of “How do you do a baptism? You just do a baptism!” [It’s an in-joke. This kind of explains it.]

At church (my actual church), congregants would occasionally sidle up to me after a service and divulge their Wittertainment status via some form of code-phrase, like a Hello to Jason Isaacs or, in one instance, the bemusing “It’s a honour to meet a legend of the church…the church of Wittertainment that is!” 

Clergy corner is a thriving niche of the Wittertainment congregation, so it shouldn’t have been surprising that clergy (or soon-to-be clergy) would continue to come out of the woodwork as fellow Wittertainees. I’ve met them at Chapter, Post Ordination Training, on Twitter and at assorted other clerical gatherings. However, I never thought I’d see the day when a Wittertainee in training for clergy corner status explained my appearance on the show to both a Bishop and the wife of the former Archbishop of Canterbury. That was the very definition of a surreal moment and one in which I think the church of Wittertainment would appreciate!

Then, last Sunday, I took myself off to the BFI for an evening’s entertainment where everything got a little bit dead amaze and totes emosh all over again…(and I’m not even joking!)

canongate-the-movie-doctors-banner.1024x500.mz

The leaders of the church, the self-styled Good Doctors, have written a book together and have been on tour to promote it. Miraculously, despite it being that most wonderful time of the year when all clergy are working their socks off, I was free on the Sunday night that the tour came to London. An alarm was set and a ticket acquired. 

The show was great, and from an initial flick-through, I highly recommend their book too. However, the real highlight was afterwards, when a book signing took place. I joined the queue just ahead of a girl in a Mary Poppins t-shirt who’d been an audience participant that evening. We chatted on and off (a friendly bunch these total strangers who belong to the same church!) until someone from the publishers came to sort out our book dedications. I felt that my whole name needed to be given (as it is in Clutterbuck that the humour lies), so gave it and then dashed off to buy the book. When I returned the ladies either side of me were chatting to each other and immediately greeted me with “I’m sorry, did you say your name was Liz Clutterbuck? Are you THE Liz Clutterbuck??” Much more conversation ensued, until we reached the front of the queue.

I’ll confess that I had hoped when purchasing my ticket that I would get to meet the Good Doctors, but that was pretty much the limit on my expectations of the evening. To quote myself as I emerged onto the South Bank later that, “Well, *that* exceeded expectations!” [Because I often talk to myself in such a way.]

When Clutterbuck met the Movie Doctors

Did I expect an exclamation from Dr K on realising who I was? No. Did I anticipate a kiss on the hand from Dr M? Most certainly not!! Was I expecting them to request a photo with me? Errr….NO!!

God bless the Clutterbuck

I left the BFI in a little bit of a daze, clutching both book and phone, lest a mugger rob me of my precious cargo! At Waterloo, I bumped into the girl ahead of me in the queue and we chatted all the way home to Stratford – another indication of just how warm and friendly this church of strangers is. It was thanks to Debbs that the following morning I joined the Mark Kermode Appreciation Society on Facebook (she’d been showing us it in the queue and it seemed a good place for film banter). When my request was approved, I received a special welcome…

MKAS Welcome

 Within a matter of hours, this had evolved into a multi-comment thread, in which it was pondered as to how one ‘does the Clutterbuck’. Chuckles emanated from my office during the course of the afternoon…

My reflection? The members of the church are only so nice because their leaders are – it sounds a bit soppy, but genuinely, that signing was one of the most authentic and positive I’ve ever witnessed. [I’ve worked in a bookshop, I’ve seen many!] It wasn’t a production line, and despite having been there for nearly an hour, they didn’t look as frazzled as any self-respecting person would have the right to be! 

So, good on you Good Doctors, thank you for being your fabulous selves and bringing much joy to discerning podcasters!

Postscript:

This post has been in draft for a couple of days (thanks to seasonal obligations). I meant to post it on Friday morning, but forgot, and then the lovely Doctors proved every word of this post to be true by mentioning our meeting (1:27 in) in the show. (Possibly the only time my name will be mentioned in the same show as JJ Abrams & the cast of Star Wars!) 

Thank you doctors (although, not to play favourites, especially Mark for your excitement & enthusiasm!), it was a delight to meet you both. You helped make an already memorable 2015 even more memorable!