There were tears, but there was also dancing!

The last fortnight has been something of a roller coaster of emotions.

Two weeks ago, on the evening of Monday 13th June I found myself dissolving into tears while scrolling through twitter. I remained emotionally fragile throughout the following day. It was the day the first deportation flight was scheduled to fly to Rwanda.

I had had a particularly long and intense day and was probably overtired. After an all-day school visit I headed straight into a Stories group session. I was out for more than twelve hours without really having much of a break. Turning to mindless scrolling on twitter was perhaps not the best choice of relaxation strategy.

Nonetheless, it is not often I let this stuff really get to me. But that day, it really did.

Perhaps because I had spent all day in school with a young man as he repeatedly shared his story of speaking out for equality and human rights, of being forced to flee his country, of undergoing an unimaginably difficult journey, of arriving to an at best mixed welcome in the UK. He speaks with immense dignity and grace. Already, he says that although to stay in his home country meant certain death, he wishes he had never left.

He spent several hours in the channel in a little boat and feared for his life. It was a terrifying experience for which he should be offered support, not be threatened with punishment. 

That Rwanda flight wasn't due to be full of anonymous statistics. It was due to to be full of people like him. If he'd arrived six months later that softly spoken, inspirational young man could have been in detention awaiting deportation. He could have been dragged across the tarmac to that plane. 

And I might never have had the privilege of meeting him. I cried for him, and for those like him locked up in immigration detention. For all those who still live each day in more fear than they should since arriving in their longed-for safe haven which turned out not to be so safe.

By the time it was due for take-off the presence of every single person who had been due to be on that flight had been deemed illegal by one court or another. 

I think I was supposed to feel euphoria or at least relief: there was very little of either. 

Don't get me wrong: I was relieved for those who would sleep another night in the UK: albeit retraumatised, still in detention and with a hideous threat still hanging over their heads. And I was encouraged and reassured by the shows of support and solidarity from up and down the country: from the legal teams, the people and organisations supporting the individuals most effected, those who raised their voices, those willing to take direct action to block the vans.

But the threat still looms large. Far from backing down, the government are wedded to the cruelty of this and other equally vile policies and, sadly, significant chunks of the electorate seem to support them in it. Our country's commitment to universal human rights is being called into question. There is much work still to be done. 

But I recovered my equilibrium. I am too busy and life is too short to spend too many hours crying over my twitter feed. Not least because we were hurtling towards Refugee Week, which has long been one of the busiest of my year and I had various things to get organised and get ready for. There was work to be done ... and fun to be had!

If Refugee Week is partly an opportunity to raise awareness and to campaign for things that need to see drastic improvements, it is above all an opportunity to celebrate: to recognise the richness and joy which those who have sought sanctuary here bring to our communities, to our lives. To my life. And there is so much to celebrate!

I filled the week with enjoyable activities with people I care about. 

There were walks in both the sunshine and in the rain, performances of poetry, a little bit of art, and a lot of music. There was an art gallery and a giant puppet. There were good conversations with good people. There were warm reunions with people I hadn't seen in a while. There was a school visit thrown in for good measure. There was hospitality offered and received. There was support and reassurance in places where it was much needed. There were reasons to smile and to laugh. There was the excitement of children. There were hugs. There was food and cups of tea to be shared. There were reminders of generosity and solidarity and compassion and a desire for justice. There was even some much appreciated good news about funding.  

Yesterday, a busy week drew to a close with the final event of Refugee Week: a picnic in the park, and a musical extravaganza in an outdoor theatre. The sun shone, mostly. We sheltered from the rain storms when it didn't. I ate delicious samosas. I watched my talented friends perform their poetry. I chatted to many friends. 

I danced with abandon almost all afternoon. 

I am definitely not a particularly good dancer. It didn't matter.  

Because I did so with friends (and strangers) from all over the world. With this community who have made Birmingham their home.

The theme of this year's refugee week was "healing". This laughter and joy and friendship; these beautiful shared moments with an amazing bunch of people was just what I needed as fuel for the fight. 

There are times when the tears can and will flow. There are times when it is right to rage against all that is wrong with the world right now. There are times for working hard. 

There are times when love and life and laughter are radical acts too.

I will keep dancing, however badly.  

A little bit of bee-ing creative

I can't remember how long ago it was that I bought a latch hook kit as another fun creative project to try, nor can I remember how long ago it was I actually started it. A while, certainly. It has progressed very much in fits and starts since then  but I have quite enjoyed having it on the go as something to come back to and pick up and then leave to one side again. 

I have written previously about the value of these kinds of craft activities as a form of relaxation in the midst of the busyness of life. Something to do which doesn't require too much thought or energy but from which the end result is infinitely more satisfying than from mindlessly scrolling through social media.

Today, on a damp and gloomy day, which feels like it would sit more comfortably in February than in June, I finally finished it. I rather like bees, and I am quite pleased with how it turned out.

Right, what next?

A change is as good as a rest

Last week I went on holiday. 

I spent five days in a caravan on the beautiful west coast of Wales with friends. In total there were 8 of us: including a four month old baby, and three very energetic small children. 

Before I went, another friend commented that it didn't sound much like a relaxing break. But on the contrary, it was very much what I needed. 

You see the thing about sharing a small space with lots of people is you have to be very much present to and with one another, and the thing about going on holiday with little people is that they are very engrossing and demand all of your attention.

As such, it forced me to switch off from the strains and stresses of everyday life.

I barely looked at my emails, responded to far fewer messages than usual, ignored the news, and didn't scroll endlessly through twitter getting depressed about the state of the world.

Instead I spent hours splashing in the swimming pool and hours on the beach. I went for long walks in the wind and got caught in a rain storm. I read bedtime stories. I paddled and I played. I entertained children on two long train journeys. I stayed up too late chatting, slept a little and got woken up early. I ate good food and drank many cups of tea. I watched the sunset over the sea and the tide splash against the rocks. 

I remembered to appreciate these precious people who are such an important part of my life. 

I allowed myself to be fully present where I was.

So yes, I came home shattered and slept extremely well on Friday night: but through the exhaustion, I also returned home thoroughly mentally refreshed. So now I suppose I better get back to the email inbox and funding applications and other such joys ...

Reasons to smile

My last two blogposts have been distinctly less than cheery. I make no apology for that: too much online presence, particularly on social media, presents an overly glamourised version of reality and I have always aspired for this blog to be an honest reflection of reality. 

That said, my life also remains filled with joy and laughter and many blessings for which I am incredibly grateful so in the name of balance now feels like an appropriate moment to share a long overdue blog post that's been unfinished in my drafts folder for a while.

There are always reasons to smile ... even in the cold, dreary winter months! But sometimes we do have to remind ourselves to seek them out, or at least to recognise them. Following previous incarnations of various joy / gratitude journals, when the nights started drawing in and the clocks changed, I started another.

My intention was to continue until the clocks changed back again but I realised I was going to run out of pages in my notebook so instead, I made the final entry on 22.02.2022 

Some days I had to think harder than others but there was never a day with nothing to say. Some are big things: news, achievements, events, celebrations. Many more are little things: sunshine after the rain, a passing affirmative comment, a favourite dish, flowers heralding spring, a moment of shared laughter, coming in from the cold to a hot cup of tea. On some days it is a perhaps slightly incongruous mix of the two. It is a varied and wide ranging collection which captures something of the beauty of nature, my gratitude for the many privileges of my comfortable life, and perhaps more than anything the love and friendship of the many wonderful people I share my life with. And now it stands as a reminder of the many things which filled me with joy and with gratitude.

I ran out of pages, I stopped taking the time each day to make a note: but I haven't run out of reasons to smile.

Rwanda

This week the Home Secretary hit a new low (which is saying something, given the cruelty already embedded in the hostile environment for people who arrive here seeking sanctuary) by announcing that the latest "solution" for how to respond to people who have fled war and persecution and arrived here via the only routes available to them is to ship them to Rwanda, not to be processed and brought back if found to have a genuine need of protection but on a one-way ticket. 

The Home Office claims the deal will stop human trafficking. The definition of human trafficking, I would posit, is to move people from one country to another, against their will, and for money to change hands in the process allowing people to profit from this trade in human lives. Far from stopping human trafficking, then, it seems like the Rwanda Scheme is a somewhat sordid case of "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em". You would think we would have learned from history that state-sponsored trading in people is not good practice.

The timing of the announcement, a blatant example of trying to distract from epic government failures, by inflicting further misery on some of the most vulnerable in society only adds to its despicable nature.

The Home Secretary's accusation that those who object have no viable alternatives makes it clear she has closed her ears to many of those who work with people who have sought asylum here, to say nothing of the sanctuary-seekers themselves, because I have heard lots of much better ideas.

There is a very simple way to stop people getting into the backs of lorries or into flimsy dinghies to cross the channel ... something nobody would do if they had a viable alternative, which would be to offer safe passage, allowing people to travel by regular means to arrive in the UK and exercise their rights under the legally binding UN refugee convention to which we are signatories.

There is a very simple way to not have thousands of people caught up in the asylum system, which would be to process their claims efficiently, fairly and compassionately. A number of my friends have waited literally years before being, ultimately told that yes, they did have a well-founded fear of persecution and had the right to and need of our protection. Of the people who I know who have arrived in the last couple years, I can barely name any who have even had the interview which gives them the opportunity to share the story on which their asylum claim will be assessed.  

Anyway, back to Rwanda.

I have heard the Rwanda plan called out because it is against international law, UK law or both.

But even if it is found to be entirely legal ... it is still wrong.

I have heard the Rwanda plan called out for being unworkable and expensive.

But even if it can be delivered efficiently and effectively with huge cost savings to the government ... it is still wrong.

I have heard the Rwanda plan called out because although initially targeting single men, there is no assurance it won't be extended to include women and children. 

But even if it only ever men who are sent ... it is still wrong. 

I have heard the Rwanda plan called out for the likelihood that it will not in fact be an effective deterrent to those who will still undertake dangerous journeys.

But even if it does reduce the number of desperate people who make their way to our shores ... it is still wrong.

I have heard the Rwanda plan called out because of Rwanda's own human rights record and questions around how the people who claim asylum there are treated.

But even if this was a deal with the country with the very best human rights record and refugee protection in the world ... it is still wrong.

It is wrong for one simple reason.

Lost in all of the Home Office rhetoric about "migrants" and "illegality" is a fundamental reality...

Humanity.

All those who will be effected by this deal are human beings. 

They are people just like us. 

I do get the need to be pragmatic, to use arguments that will serve to convince those who don't already agree, and those whose morally compasses are seemingly rather askew. I'm sure I too will retweet the tweets pointing out all the side issues with this sordid deal.

But all that aside, let us not lose sight that this is, simply, wrong.

And for the sake of my friends, among whom I have seen in the past week increased levels of unsettledness and anxiety and fear, I will call it out for what it is.

The past month

There are a number of intertwined reasons why it is has been more than a month since I last posted anything here; the simplest of which is that I have been, objectively, too busy.

My series of hectic weeks was a combination of having planned perhaps slightly too many things, but also having a slightly higher than usual number of unplanned things that required an immediate response which therefore took up the non-existent-slack all coming at once. This is not the place for a list of all the many and varied things I have got up to in the last month, that isn't the point. Suffice it to say that many, most, perhaps even all of both the planned and the unplanned, I felt were good things to be doing, things where I had the potential to make a positive difference, things I think I was right to say yes to. Not to mention that it included plenty of joy and fun along the way.

I do know I have a tendency towards taking on too much, and, being aware of the tendency, I have tried quite hard to create balance and find ways and means of having switch off time. And actually, I know, from experience, that to have odd weeks where my busy-ness has an unsustainable feel to it is probably ok, so long as it isn't every week stretching on for ever.

And although it is true that I have had a few hectic weeks, I don't actually think it was as simple as the sheer number and variety of appointments and activities in my diary that pushed me to the edge of feeling overwhelmed. Because overwhelm isn't just about diary space, it is also about headspace: and switching off strategies have to be about headspace as well as diary space.

In the midst of what promised to already be a very busy period the Ukraine crisis hit: and both in practical and emotional levels added to my sense of overload. It also felt like the thing I should, and not just should but wanted to, write about, but although I tried a number of times, I couldn't put in to words what I wanted to say write.

It seemed the whole country watched in horror as Ukrainians were forced to flee from the home in the face of bombs dropped by a foreign power. It prompted an outpouring of compassion and the desire to help. Social media and public spaces were awash with blue and yellow flags. Even the Daily Mail came out in support of welcoming refugees.

And of course I knew I was supposed to want to celebrate such a show of generosity and concern and welcome ... but the whole thing made me feel deeply, deeply uncomfortable. It is not as if feeling deeply uncomfortable with reactions to refugees is anything new: the hostile environment provides ample opportunities for that, but this was a bit different because it came, at least ostensibly, from a place of goodwill and kindness. I am sure this internal struggle to find the the right ways to respond to the subtle and not so subtle racism inherent in so much of what I saw; the right words to gently challenge those who seemed oblivious to the unhelpful refugees narrative they were, perhaps subconsciously, helping to perpetuate, was one of the things which has been exhausting recently.

There was another facet to the whole Ukraine situation which deeply affected me too, which was seeing the direct impact it had on many of my friends who are still stuck in the asylum process. It felt like for some it was really the straw that broke the camels back in terms of mental health as I watched people struggle with anger and despair, that their own suffering and their own situations did not illicit the same sympathetic response. I had no answer for the person who asked why we "didn't even know about my country's war?". I had no answer as to why Ukrainian refugees would immediately be given the right to work while many of them, who were desperate to work and to contribute were still denied that right after several / many years. They didn't need me to answer. I had no challenge when they said that the difference was because they are white and European, because ultimately, I knew they were right.

*           *          *

Then, last week I spent a few days walking part of Northern Leg of Pilgrim Cross. Five days of long walks, of late night conversations and of sleeping on church hall floors are perhaps not best approached from a position of already being exhausted; but actually, while I didn't manage to switch off entirely form the rest of life, spending five days walking in the countryside under sunny skies surrounded by friends was exactly what I needed. It is an all-encompassing experience which, although it was physically tiring, was also a reasonably effective mental rest.

Prior to that I had also had helpful conversations with both my Birch supervisor and the person I meet with regularly as my 'sounding board' about the Stories project, among others.

I came back to a relatively busy work day, which involved both facilitating a new hosting placement and helping run an Easter activity afternoon for families in initial accommodation; as well as to the news that the government, in its latest desperate attempt to distract from its own failings had sunk to a new low in its plans to export asylum seekers for cash.

But I also came back to several days of not setting a morning alarm, to plenty of gaps in my diary for a few days, to a commitment, which I have honoured, to carving out some personal space to rest and relax.

*           *          *

The Rwanda policy, as the latest step in an increasingly abhorrent approach to how we treat those seeking sanctuary on our shores, has caused many of my friends to experience new levels of fear and anxiety about the precariousness of their situation in a place where all they are asking for is safety and welcome. Next week it is highly likely the Nationality and Borders Bill will once again be passed by the Commons, probably with most or all of the Lords' amendments attempting to make it marginally more humane removed.

But I have stepped back from the place of feeling overwhelmed. My energy levels are topped back up.

And today it is Easter.

So I will continue to believe that goodness is stronger than evil, even where evil appears to prevail; I will continue to believe that light can dispel the darkness, even when the world feels like a very sombre place.

I will continue the fight to make it so.

22 . 02 . 2022

Whatever it may say about me, I do rather like dates with a pattern so I knew 22.02.2022 which was not only a palindrome but also an ambigram, and made up of all matching digits was definitely worth marking! And to add to the joy it was a Twosday as well.

It was, all things considered, a great day to have a party!

And so I filled my home with people. 

I think, altogether I counted 47 who came and went through the day. 

They ranged in age from six weeks to well over seventy years. 

They came from 11 different nationalities from all across the world.

There were people I knew from various different contexts. 

There was mess and noise and lots of laughter.

There were cups of tea, plenty of food, and too much cake (if such a thing can ever be said).

There were people who mucked in to help tidy up and do the washing up and even hoover before they left.

There were conversations between friends and between strangers who had only just met each other.

There were friendships being deepened and community being built.

My heart is full. Thank you!

Birth pangs and beauty

I know I use the word privilege a lot when I speak or write about my life and all the encounters and experiences it affords me. I do so because it is the one that genuinely sums up how I feel.

A few weeks ago, I was birthing partner for a very special friend and helped her welcome her child into the world. I sat by her side for hours in a hot, airless room witnessing pain and struggle and hope. I held out a hand and wished there was more I could offer. I cut the cord which had been literally the life blood of a child for the past nine months. I held a tiny child in my arms very soon after their entrance into the world.  

My insight into the miracle we call life has a new facet to it. The term "birth pangs" has taken on a much deeper meaning. 

Perhaps what struck me the most was the stark juxtaposition: of airlessness and the need to breathe deeply, of pain and of beauty, of fragility and of resilience: and how it stood as a reminder of the complications and contradictions that make up this messy, miraculous reality we call life. 

It was an immense privilege to be a tiny part of their story.

I thought at the time there was probably a poem in it. It has been fragments ever since. And now it has found a shape.  

Breathe in, breathe out

Reach out

Hold tight

Seek the light

And through the tears

And pains and fears

Amidst the mess

The sweat, the stress

A fragile hope

Of beauty

Bleeds

New life

Holds on

Holds tight

And this little, tiny life

So fragile, so frail

And yet so strong

Strives on

Towards the light

And as we watch

And as we wait

We bear witness

To

The resilience

Of vulnerability

And of faith

Trusting

The world is ready

To welcome

To offer a place

A sacred space

To simply be

Born

To simply be

  

Breathe in, breathe out

Reach out

Hold tight

Seek the light

And so we wait

Beneath bright

Artificial light

Whilst unheeded

Beyond the windows

The day fades gently towards night

The day fades

The sun sets

And life awakes

A final sigh

A baby's cry

And beauty breaks

Across the sky

And as

Eyes open

Heart beats

Cry breaks

Beyond the strain

Between the pain

Is born

This miracle of life

And a cord is cut

But as one

life-link

Severs

Thus begins

A whole world of

Trusting in

Depending on

Connecting with

One another

And so

Little one

Breathe in, breathe out

Reach out

Hold tight

Find the light.

A no-longer-blank canvas

Having not painted much at all for a while, why wouldn't I, for my next artistic project, take on "the big canvas"?

Back in early March 2020 as the prospect of an inevitable lockdown crept closer; some people stockpiled toilet rolls and pasta. I, meanwhile, was more concerned with how I was going to keep occupied and went to The Works to stock up on arts and crafts resources. One extra large canvas which I thought would be a new and novel challenge was one of my purchases.

As things turned out, due to both remaining busier than I anticipated or feared throughout the lockdowns, and to having less creative energy than I thought I might, it has sat unpainted, taking up space, ever since.

Until now.

I am still not entirely sure whether it is finished, but I'm done for the time being.

Stories of Hope and Home ... 2021

It is no secret that a lot of my time, energy and passion over the last two and a half years has been dedicated to bringing to life Stories of Hope and Home.

Setting out in autumn 2019, I probably wouldn't have chosen to throw a global pandemic into the mix in the first year, but even with that added complication, I genuinely think that this little project is doing some very good and important things for those who are involved with and encounter it. 

It is incredibly hard to capture and quantify what it so special about this group of people and why it is such an absolute privilege to work with them; but I recently wrote a blogpost on the Stories of Hope and Home website which at least tried to sum up some of our activities and achievements over the last year. I don't think there's much traffic to our website (even less than to this one), so I thought I'd share a link to it here too and invite you to take a look:   

https://storiesofhopeandhome.blogspot.com/2022/02/the-year-that-was-2021.html

#pray24brum

I wrote the following for Churches Together in England, so although it was written with a slightly different audience in mind which accounts for some of the content and style of it, I thought I'd share it here too:

Pray24Brum, 24 hours of prayer in and for our city during the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity, is now an established feature of the church year in Birmingham. The event began back in 2015 making this our eight edition.

Coming at the beginning of the calendar year it is a beautiful way to begin the year, reminded that we are a gloriously diverse collection of individuals and communities but that we are united in our common commitment to prayer. This year, as Birmingham prepares to welcome the world as host city of the commonwealth games, it felt if anything more important than ever to come together across our many traditions and expressions of faith to turn together towards the God who loves us.

The structure of the event has changed little year on year. Each year is hosted by a different city centre church, and this year we gathered at The Church at Carrs Lane. Churches, charities, schools and Christian groups from across the city, and at times beyond, are invited to lead an hour of prayer according to their own tradition. Every year we welcome back groups for whom this is an important part of their year, but there are also always churches or communities participating for the first time.

This creates huge variety in style and subject of prayer, and yet, without it being planned as such, strands and recurring themes often emerge throughout the 24 hours. For example, this year one group focused on praying for children and young people, little knowing that the hour after them would be led by a group of school children. It was totally unplanned, but seamless (apart from the technical hitches) and beautiful!

Last year pandemic restrictions meant Pray24Brum was an online-only event. Having thought we might have to cancel completely, it still felt precious and meaningful to be connected through cyberspace but for those of us who met again in person this year, there was something particularly beautiful and poignant. Previously I'm sure we took for granted this possibility of gathering together to pray and it has certainly taught us all gratitude for these simple things. Some hours attracted more people than others but often it was only small numbers who gathered in person to pray. We live by the promise of the gospels “Wherever two or three are gathered, I am there with them” and those of us who were present recognised something powerful about the simple constancy of being together in prayer.

It was also our first foray into a hybrid model, with everything being streamed online as well as open in person. We were fortunate that the technological aspects all went remarkably, and perhaps surprisingly, well! It was heartening to see how many people engaged online but Facebook statistics not withstanding we have no idea, really what the reach of the event is. We never really know who the event touches and in what ways. But then again, it is not our job to know either. 

We trust that it plants seeds. We trust that God will make them grow and flower.

https://cte.org.uk/pray24brum-2022/ 

I am not shocked

Recently I was at a hotel being used to accommodate people seeking asylum. As people arrived and left they said a number which was duly noted down on a list. I presume the justification was some kind of fire register.

It made me deeply uncomfortable. 

Perhaps it was because it was shortly after Holocaust Memorial Day where images of individuals with numbers tattooed on their bodies were much in evidence, or perhaps simply because I know these people as individuals with names and stories; I found it extremely troubling ... 

And yet I wasn't shocked.

I think I have lost the ability to be shocked by anything at all in relation to the hostile environment.

I don't think that means I have become hardened by my exposure to these realities, or desensitised to the suffering ... on the contrary I continue to experience deep emotions in relation to what I see my friends experience on a daily basis.

I am often frustrated, angry, outraged. At times I feel a deep sense of guilt and shame that these things are perpetrated in my name. I have been reduced to tears, or held them back out of respect for those living with these realities.

But shock implies something unexpected and sadly, though I wish it were not so, it seems there is nothing that surprises me about the way we as a country (and the west more widely) respond to the desperate people who turn to us seeking sanctuary.

While I was reflecting on this I saw a tweet by UNHCR expressing that they were shocked and saddened about the deaths of a group of asylum seekers in Europe's borders. Perhaps they were. Perhaps it was just a turn of phrase. 

I wish I had been shocked. Just as I wish I had been shocked when the bodies of 21 people were fished out of the English channel. 

And it's not just about the stories that make the headlines, I also wish I was shocked by all the little individual stories of suffering which are never going to make the news but which impact on the lives of those I care about every single day. 

I wish I was shocked about the person in a wheelchair who has no step-free access to their accommodation. I wish I was shocked that there are people who have been stuck in inadequate "contingency accommodation", unable to so much as cook a meal for themselves, for more than a year. I wish I had been shocked when a mum and new born arrived in their accommodation to find the heating was broken. I wish I was shocked when people are counting in years rather than months how long they are waiting to be interviewed by the Home Office, let alone receive a decision on their claim. I wish I was shocked when people are ripped away from their communities to be taken to accommodation many miles away in other parts of the country with no thought to the impact on their wellbeing. The list goes on.

I wish I was shocked by those individual human beings who are finding themselves identified by a number. 

But there is something else which used to take me by surprise and no longer does, but which I am determined always to celebrate and never to take for granted ...

I am also no longer shocked by the hope and resilience, by the generosity and open-heartedness, and by the capacity for laughter and joy I see in the midst of all this too. 

A tale of two Christmases

Despite being surrounded by commercial Christmas in the shops and city centre streets, it took me a long time to get into the Christmas spirit. I suspect it was partly because of all the ongoing covid uncertainty, and doubts about whether and how we might be able to celebrate this year: perhaps subconsciously, maybe even consciously, I didn't want to get my hopes up only to have them dashed by a positive test... I know for many that was, indeed, their reality.  

Because for me Christmas is not about stuff, it is very much about people. And it is people, not stuff, we have so often found ourselves deprived of these last couple of years. 

In the end, although there were some changes to some of the things I had planned over the festive period, and some of those I would have shared them with; I was lucky enough to be able to enjoy not one, but two beautiful Christmases. 

On 25th December, we had something that I had perhaps previously come to take for granted and that this year we had hardly dared to hope for ... a beautiful celebration of Christmas with lots of people gathered together in the flat at Carrs Lane. 

There was laughter and noise and a fair amount of mess and chaos ... but also a very unchaotic, perfectly orchestrated delicious Christmas dinner for 13. There was lots of food, endless washing up, the sharing of thoughtful gifts, the excitement of children.

There was conversation and warmth and friendship and family.

Then, on 7th January (because of something to do with the Julian and Gregorian calendars and the extraction of a number of days at a certain point in history), many of the Orthodox traditions celebrate Christmas.  And one of the group decided that Stories of Hope and Home, this group of people, this family, was exactly who she wanted to be celebrating Christmas with. 

So once again there was laughter and noise and a fair amount of mess and chaos but also delicious food and traditional Eritrean coffee with fresh-roasted beans (without setting the fire alarm off!). There was a gathering of friends as well as those we had never met before made to feel welcome. 

There was conversation and warmth and friendship and family. 

All of these, and others, are those I call family. And this, for me, is what Christmas spirit looks like. The building of communities which stretch wide in welcome, the creating of spaces where light and laughter shine. 

So although everyone else had apparently already moved on by then: I found Easter Eggs in the shops almost a week before Christmas, and the German market and all its paraphernalia was already being tidied away two days before the 25th; and although I wasn't sure I would, I did, in fact, in the end find my Christmas spirit. 

But now, it is the 2nd February, Candlemas, today I will finally be taking the decorations down and I declare Christmas closed!

A little bit of crafting

Generally, in recent years, as anyone who reads this knows, my preferred forms of creative expression have mostly been poetry and painting. Both rely on having imaginative ideas and a certain amount of creative energy. Recently, I haven't produced very much of either.

But even when the ideas aren't flowing, I still know how much I value having some form of creativity in my life. So I have turned to various crafting kits and projects instead. 

I'm sure there are some purists out there who would question how much "creativity" is really involved. But you know what, there is something very satisfying about creating something. Even when you have followed a pattern and / or a set of instructions to do so. Even if they're probably really aimed at children. 

Doing something creative is also, for me at least, a good way of relaxing and switching off from other responsibilities. My life is rich and varied and at times, intensely busy and emotionally tiring ... taking time to rest and recharge matters: for me and for those around me. Intentionally pursuing ways to take a break isn't something I have always been good at, but it is something I know to be vitally important.  

So my pens and paint brushes remain poised for when the ideas come. But in between times, I'll keep doing things like this too.

At the turning of the year

A year ago I wrote a post setting out not my new year's resolutions but my "every day goals" for the year: the things I wanted to consciously choose to prioritise, things that I knew had value in making my life richer and more fulfilled.

https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2021/01/everyday-goals.html  

I guess now it's January again, it's time to look back and see how I did. 

The context has, of course, shifted during the year: through various phases on restrictions to approaching alleged "normality" and everything in between; with varying other activities and responsibilities vying for my attention too as life reinvented itself multiple times. These goals were always deliberately intended to be things which weren't dependent on external circumstances, but the rest of life inevitably impinges too. 

Some I have stuck at better than others. I think I probably have gone outdoors if not every single day this year, then pretty close to it (with which I am very aware of the privilege of never having had to self-isolate and be locked away for days on end). I am pleased with my commitment to seeking out things which bring me joy and of remembering to be grateful for the small and the big things that enrich my life. 

With many of them, I have gone through phases. The more creative ones, have certainly had dry patches. I haven't always done as good a job as I'd have hoped of putting down my phone or not scrolling meaninglessly through social media but I have been conscious of trying to at times. I have stayed connected with various friends and family but also remain aware of the unanswered messages and emails, the unfulfilled good intentions. 

Overall, I think I'd give myself above satisfactory, but probably not outstanding. But then again, that wasn't really the point. I let myself off the hook by saying from the start that these were things I wanted to aim for, to prioritise, to keep in my consciousness: and that, at least, I think I have done relatively well. 

So what about for the year ahead? Well, to be honest, last year's list is still a pretty good starting point as they are still things I consider important, but in the interest of refreshing it a little, and because this is something that keeps coming back to me, this year I am going to focus on the things I want to "seek out", either within me or around me, or in some cases both. 

This is undoubtedly not an exhaustive list, and I confess that once I'd found myself starting to make alliterative that did set a limit on what I was going to include. Then again, I also want it to be short enough to be something I can realistically keep in mind; so here is this year's "Things to Seek Out" list: 

Community and Connection

Silence and Stillness

Beauty and Balance

Purpose and Play

Happiness and Hope

Gratitude and Grace

Stations of the Nativity

The tradition of following the Stations of the Cross, reflecting on the events of Jesus' passion and death is an ancient one. later, Stations of Light, reflecting on the resurrection appearances, were added. As far as I know, in the wider church, there are no other series of stations for other seasons / aspects of Jesus' life and identity, but I like the rhythm of prayer created by these stations, so that hasn't stopped me writing some of my own.

I wrote these "Stations of the Nativity" a few years ago but have never shared them here so as the Christmas season draws to a close, thought it was perhaps apt to do so.

The First Station: Jesus as Child and Saviour of his Nation (The genealogy)

Matthew 1: 1 - 17

Embedded

In the history of his people

Of a journey towards salvation

Named and known

Child of a chosen nation

Creating a connection

To this his Holy Ground

The Second Station: The Annunciation

Luke 1: 26 - 38

Promised

As fear gives way to love

An encounter with the divine

Invitation and acceptance

The will of God

Made known

On this humble, Holy Ground

The Third Station: Joseph's Dream

Matthew 1: 18 - 25

Invited

By a messenger from God

To dare to love

Dreams and visions

The ordinary becomes extraordinary

Taking risks

To share in this Holy Ground

The Fourth Station: The Visit to Elizabeth

Luke 1: 39 - 56

Shared

With one who also knows

An unexpected hope

The pain and the promise

Daring to believe

Singing praise

On this now Holy Ground

The Fifth Station: The Birth of John the Baptist

Luke 1: 63 - 79

Filled

With a spirit of hope

At the birth of a baby

Prophecy and prayer

Setting out

Speaking truth

Preparing Holy Ground

The Sixth Station: Journeying to Bethlehem

Luke 2: 1 - 5

Summoned

By an empire's power

To the home of the shepherd king

Apprehension and exhaustion

Weighed down with worry

And unborn child

Walk on across Holy Ground

The Seventh Station: Finding No Room at the Inn

Luke 2: 7

Abandoned

To the darkness of night

By the hostility of closed doors

Outside and excluded

In a place fit only for beasts

No space for Him

On this yet Holy Ground

The Eighth Station: The Birth of Jesus

Luke 2: 6 - 7

Fulfilled

In the birth of a baby

As love takes human form

Humility and hope

Immanuel: God is with us

Making this

Most Holy Ground

The Ninth Station: Shepherds and Angels

Luke 2: 8 - 18

Huddled

Against the dark night sky

Until glory breaks through

Wonder and amazement

Greeting the angels' song

A promise of peace

Shines down on Holy Ground

The Tenth Station: Magi Journey from the East

Matthew 2: 1 - 9

Guided

From distant lands

To seek a new born king

Wisdom and starlight

Turning away from centres of power

Ever onwards

Towards this Holy Ground

The Eleventh Station: The Giving of Gifts

Matthew 2: 10 - 11

Offered

Homage on bended knee

To a baby in a manger

Symbolism and sacrifice

Foretelling a life to come

Gold, frankincense, myrrh

Poured out on Holy Ground

The Twelfth Station: The Flight into Egypt

Matthew 2: 13 - 15

Hurried

Out into darkest night

An escape form violent persecution

Fleeing and frightened

To a land peopled by the ghosts of Passover

And do the exiled ask

Where now is Holy Ground?

The Thirteenth Station: Bethlehem Weeps for the Children

Matthew 2: 16 - 18

Burdened

With the grief of a nation

As innocence dies

Tears and lamentations

In a land now soaked in blood

Crying out

Is this still Holy Ground?

The Fourteenth Station: Jesus as the Incarnate Word

John 1: 1 - 18

Revealed

From before the beginning

Incarnate among us

Word and Flesh

This is our God

Embracing an encounter

On this most Holy Ground

*       *       *

In the silence

We stand on Holy Ground

Be still and watch

But not for long

It is time

To step out and walk on.

The light shines ... Christmas Poem 2021

I have a long tradition of writing a Christmas poem each year. The earliest ones pre-date this blog by some years. I thought this year might be the one to break the tradition as I was feeling very uninspired.

But then, earlier this week, I watched the sunrise. And, (unlike today, when there is just a gradually fading from murky black to murky grey with the promise of not really getting light all day) it was stunningly beautiful.

In some ways this still breaks with tradition because for some reason, unlike most of my other poetry, the Christmas ones usually rhyme and this one doesn't, but there is, none-the-less, somewhat unexpectedly, a Christmas poem for 2021.

“Arise, shine, for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord rises upon you. See, darkness covers the earth and thick darkness is over the peoples, but the Lord rises upon you and his glory appears over you.” 

Isaiah 60:2

Thick darkness covers the earth

Midnight black

Emptied 

Even of stars

With a sense of anticipation

We wait

Until from somewhere unseen

Beyond the horizon

Deep purple stains the sky

Bringing peace

Until with a subtle shift

Darkness begins to fade

As pink spills in wispy streaks

Heralding love

Until as the sun inches higher

Red bleeds through the clouds

And oranges blaze bright

Promising joy

Until thus the sun, fully risen,

Scatters its light

And dyes the sky a vivid blue

Offering hope

And a new day dawns.

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it” 

John 1: 5

Merry Christmas Everyone!

Mary, meek and mild?

Every Tuesday we meet together with a small group to reflect on and unpack the following Sunday's gospel. I find it a valuable space to think more deeply about these texts we often reel off so glibly and to be challenged and inspired about how we are called to respond to them. I am grateful to those who contribute and who expand my thoughts and ideas. 

Each week one of us shares something to get the conversation started. I'm sharing mine for this week, in case it's of interest to anyone.

Today we reflect on Luke 1: 39 - 45 (46 - 56), the visitation of Mary to Elizabeth and proclamation of the Magnificat. I think I got to do “Mary week” last advent too when we read about the Annunciation. Not that I am complaining … I love Mary.

I love Mary ... but not the Mary that seems to be so frequently portrayed in the churches where, whether she is a bit part in the nativity play, or centre stage as a porcelain statue; a lot of the imagery seems to be around submission and passivity. Mary, pure and innocent, meek and mild. Dressed in blue, veiled, eyes turned down to contemplate her toes, silent.

But I just don’t see that any of that really fits with the Mary we see in the gospels. Although her biblical appearances are limited, they just don’t chime with the medieval-art-Mary that the churches, in different ways, seem to have embraced.

The biblical Mary doesn’t strike me as mild and submissive, as a passive bystander on whom a pivotal role in God’s plan is imposed. She strikes me as an active player in her own life in a way that is potentially challenging even now, even more so in the culture of her day.

In the gospels we see a Mary who buys in and says yes, and who stays the path to the end in a way that not many do.

We see a Mary who is feisty and independent.
Who is not afraid to tell Jesus, to tell God, what to do.

We see a Mary who makes miracles happen.
Who offers radical hospitality.
Who campaigns for justice.

We see a Mary who accepts suffering as part of the cost.
We see a Mary to whom God entrusts a mission.

And much of that is already visible in this passage, which for all its familiarity I wonder if we often skim over without giving it much thought.

For instance, it wasn’t until I was considering what to say today that I really gave much thought to the whole idea of Mary going on a journey to visit Elizabeth. In my head I have, possibly not very accurate, images of the annunciation, and of the greeting between Mary and Elizabeth, but nothing between the two. But this was not a visit to her next door neighbour. Journeying to the hill country means travelling notoriously dangerous roads. She travels, as far as we know, alone, and as far as we know, of her own volition.

Which set me thinking (with a bit of a prompt from someone else, thanks google) about the fact that journeying is a recurring theme for Mary.

I am probably not alone in mostly picturing Mary at home. Maybe it is because of that standard annunciation image of Mary doing the housework interrupted by an angel. But the gospels make no references to Mary as a homely character: there are no passages where she is cooking or doing the housework. 

There are however, several examples of her going on journeys. This is the first: to be followed by (if you mishmash the gospels together) the trip to Bethlehem, the flight into Egypt, the trip to Jerusalem with a pre-teen and probably fairly obstreperous Jesus in tow, to Cana at the beginning of Jesus ministry and so on until Jerusalem for the passion…

This should perhaps not be surprising. Journeying is, after all, a key theme for many of the prophets and the saints. Many of those who announce Jesus' coming are often to be found on the road.

What’s more, this journey takes her from her non-descript backwater home to somewhere that could, comparatively, be seen as a centre of power. Elizabeth is married to a temple priest. Yes this might be about Mary seeking out support and comfort from a fellow mother-to-be in unusual circumstances, yes perhaps she is scared and overwhelmed … but perhaps there is in fact something else going on. Perhaps she is taking the gospel to a place of religious power. A pre-cursor to her son who will do the same.

So I wonder why Mary is more often depicted at home instead of on the road? I wonder if it has less to do with truth and more to do with societal norms and a desire to reinforce them? I wonder if the feisty Mary didn’t chime easily within the church so she was domesticated to make her more palatable? I think it was Dorothy Day who said, “don’t call me a saint, I don’t want to dismissed that easily” There are numerous examples of saints whose message has been watered down and controlled, but I wonder whether Mary for all her apparent position of prestige in church tradition has fallen victim to this more than most.

And that’s before we even get started on the Magnificat, this political manifesto which Mary, or perhaps Elizabeth, then proclaims, but perhaps I’ll leave it there for now.

Memories

Many, many years ago I was a student.

Eventually, about a year ago, I finally decided that, as they were no longer really wearable, they had done their time and I finally had to retire my hoodies from both CathSoc and Free Church Society (my ecumenical credentials, which are such an important part of my faith identity, date, really, to my experiences at Lancaster Chaplaincy). 

I associate them with precious memories and valued friendships from my Lancaster days, and, having worn them in season and out, from many other happy times since.

I was loathe to throw them away.

This week, I turned them into cushion covers and gave them a new life. 

I haven't been very creative recently, and I am definitely not a sewing expert, but I am quite pleased with the outcome of this latest mini project.

I believe we all look up to the same sky

I believe 

The sky is always beautiful

And that

It doesn’t matter if its colours

Are a mere illusion

If it is not really

Cerulean blue

Or midnight black

And the sunset doesn’t

Bleed orange and purple through the clouds

I believe 

The sky is a mystery we pretend we understand

Vast beyond our imaginings

And yet 

Right here

Slipping unheeded through our fingers

Breathed in with

Every

Single

Breath

I believe 

The sky does not discriminate

Between

The human-shaped specks here below

That the ever-present,

Oft-hidden

Rainbow

Stretches wide enough to hold

All of us

Each of us  

Who look up in wonder

At the same sky

Kaleidoscope - Welcoming Little Amal

Yesterday Little Amal arrived in Birmingham and I, among several hundred others, was there to welcome her. 

For those who don't know, Little Amal is a not-so-little puppet of a child refugee. The brainchild of Good Chance Theatre company, she has journeyed from the Syria-Turkey border, through Europe, heading towards her final destination in Manchester early next week. In Arabic, Amal means Hope.

*          *          *

The Birmingham welcome event was in Erdington, a fairly non-descript, ordinary suburb of north Birmingham, in a somewhat rundown shopping centre.

But that rundown shopping centre where the stage was set for this act of welcome had been lovingly transformed into a vibrant community space where the whole world was made welcome. A place of music and movement; of conversation and connection; of laughter and life.

There were brummies born and bred; possibly / probably even those who had lived their whole lives in that particular little corner of the city. There were those who had arrived within recent weeks: I know this, because via Birch we intentionally invited some of the newly-arrived families who are living in initial accommodation here. There was everybody in between.

There were those with lived experience of seeking asylum and those who have long been committed to trying to make them feel welcome. There were those who knew nothing of the whats and whys and wherefore who were just there, because there was where they were. There was everybody in between.

And there was Amal.

*          *          *

I had a couple of different responsibilities, including the huge privilege to be invited, as part of the welcome, together with two delightful Syrian teenagers, to perform a poem from the Stories of Hope and Home poetry book. I was trying to keep track of quite a few different people and catch up with various friends. I had moments of being busy and distracted and preoccupied.

But I was also glad to take the time to pause, and to look up.

And there was Amal.

Meeting her was a powerful and strangely moving experience. I use "her" intentionally: a carved wooden puppet she may be, but it somehow feels impossible not to acknowledge her humanity. I know I am not alone in sensing something of this, something intangible and hard to express. I heard several people comment on how it felt when she "looked" at them, looked with wooden, unseeing eyes, and yet, and yet. 

*          *          *

Thank you Erdington.

This kaleidoscope of colour. This tapestry of stories. This unexpected beauty.

This is the Birmingham I love. This is the Birmingham that welcomed little Amal. This is the Birmingham that welcomed me. This is the Birmingham I trust to welcome others too.

https://www.walkwithamal.org/

http://www.erdingtonlocal.com/news-hundreds-welcome-little-amal-to-erdington-as-a-community-of-sanctuary/

Thank you Wales

I have recently returned from three days in Llandudno, my fourth, and I expect last (but who knows?), trip to Wales of the year. 

Each has been entirely different. Each has been wonderful in its own way.

I am grateful for all of them. 

I am grateful for the beauty of grass-covered hilltops and sandy expanses of beach, of the sea stretching to the horizon, of the sun rising and setting, of skies scattered with stars. 

I am grateful for the opportunities to spend time with people who are very precious to me, for the many people I call "family", for the infectious excitement of children, for deep, personal conversations and for superficial, silly ones, for lots and lots of laughter. 

I am grateful, too, for moments of peace and solitude, for the space to process and reflect, for time completely alone.

I am grateful for the sharing of memories and the shaping of dreams.

I am grateful for the fresh air I have breathed.

Thank you Wales!

At summer's end

Ten days ago it was the autumn equinox, and last week we passed Michaelmas, another date traditionally associated with the arrival of autumn. We have been blessed with amazing weather for most of September, but the evenings are noticeably cooler and darker. This week moments of bright sunshine have been interspersed with the first thoroughly grey, wet days for a long while. October has begun and, much to my irritation, Christmas is in the shops.

One way or another it seems, summer has drawn to a close, and autumn has arrived. It is a season which brings with it, for me at least, an interesting mix of contrasting feelings and associations.

There are those days where the damp seems to seep through however many layers you wear and the sky is a monotony of grey meaning it never gets quite bright enough to switch off the lights.

But there are also those days where we experience the beauty of the trees ablaze with colour, shiny brown conkers, and long shadows cast by the afternoon light as the sun hangs low in the sky.

It's been a while since I have had the six-week summer break as a clear dividing line, so the shift from one year to the next has become a little more blurred than it once was, but autumn inevitably marks the end of various fun summer activities: holidays, days out, celebrations.

But at the same time, this is the time of year when I open a new diary and begin to fill its blank pages: making new plans, and looking ahead to what the year holds much of which is, as ever exciting and fulfilling.

This is autumn: 

Gloom and glory. Endings and beginnings. Death and new life.

A week in the life

I have never wanted this blog to just be a record of "first I did this, then I did that" but for my own interest, if not for anyone else's, I thought there could be something to be said for capturing, at a certain moment in time, a little of what life looks like. I don't think that I could entirely say I have any such thing as a typical week so I guess this one is as good as any other (incidentally this is attempt number 3 at this recently having got distracted mid week on the two previous occasions!)

Sunday: Even by my standards the previous week to this was exceptionally busy so by today I had hit the point of borderline overwhelmed and really quite tired! But I didn't have to be up particularly early ... just with enough time to plan and prep what to do with junior church, before leading it. Decided it was high time to get the paints out having not done so for a few weeks. I was a little bit caught between a long jobs list and needing a rest but actually ended up doing neither very well as I was relatively unproductive so probably should have just switched off. I did manage to pop out and enjoy at least a little bit of sunshine, and buy a couple of gifts I wanted to get for people. It was also my turn to cook ... turns out I can confirm eggs are fine a long way past their sell-by date! Plus I finished first in the diamond league (it's a Duolingo thing) ... I still can't speak Arabic, obviously, but maybe there's glimmers of a tiny bit of progress.

Monday: We restarted public, livestreamed morning prayer today after the long summer break. I have done morning prayer on my own relatively often but not entirely consistently through the summer, but I am grateful for the return of this structure to my days and the feeling of being connected with others as we pray together. Quite a lot of variety in the rest of my day including a long chat with a colleague, meeting up, separately, with two members of the stories group to offer support and encouragement in two very different situations, one online meeting and a very brief visit to my old haunt St Chad's Sanctuary. Then this evening I started the breadcrumbs challenge, an online art programme which I first did at a similar time last year. It's an exploration of ideas and making connections between life and art rather than a technical skills course and it's interesting to reflect on the ways in which I am in a different place to last time round. 

Tuesday: In one of my roles I support newly arrived asylum-seeking families with children: consistently one of their very first questions and concerns is how to get their children into school. Today I spend most of the morning helping a small number of little people register for school places, find school uniform and sort everything so that tomorrow they can begin. I came home with my heart warmed by the gestures of welcome I saw offered and the great joy it gave. In more mundane news, between other odds and end, in a rare moment of advanced organisation I remembered to go the market today ahead of being on the cooking rota for tomorrow (top tip: Birmingham outdoor market has far fewer stalls on Wednesdays than other days of the week) In the background, even though I think it was the right decision for me not to be there this time, I was aware of and thankful for the many people of faith, including a number of friends, who were praying and protesting outside the DSEi Arms Fair in London. 

Wednesday: I got on my bike straight after morning prayer today: I was off to a supervision meeting, but it was also nice to not just be sitting straight down in front of a screen first thing. As well as my existing role running the family activities, I have recently taken over as hosting coordinator at Birch so there was lots to talk about and plans to make. Although I'm aware of the many things I still have to learn, I'm excited about the possibilities to build and grow. From there I was straight into an online meeting before cycling home, having beans on toast for lunch and then settling down for what turned out to be a very productive afternoon: various jobs ticked off, a number of overdue emails sent (and some timely ones), another poetry book put into the post, and a risk assessment finally written. 

Thursday: Today's morning zoom meeting was to launch the planning for pray24brum 2022, and it was good to be together, albeit virtually, with this little group of people once more. Like every year, I find myself wondering if I have the time energy and capacity to help make it happen, and, like every year, I know on the day itself I will recall why I did prioritise it just enough to say yes to continuing to be involved. Some other odds and ends and a couple of calls meant I was slightly later than planned setting off for the afternoon. When I first started working for Birch in early 2020, it was to restart the family activities for parents and children living in hostels: I think we managed three sessions before lockdown rudely interrupted. This summer we have been meeting again, but today was a significant moment as we finally returned to running the sessions in the hall we walked away from 18 months ago little knowing it would be so long before we were back. The numbers were small but the needs are significant: the heartbreak of hearing the struggles of their experiences and the joy of seeing them enjoying the space and appreciating the support go hand in hand: we overran the allotted time, and even after that there was some chatting in the hostel car park before I finally headed home. After dropping my bike back I went out almost immediately to head over to very good friends for dinner, from where I (just) made the last train home.

Friday: When I branched out on my own to set up Stories of Hope and Home, one of the needs I recognised was having someone to meet with, to talk to, to assist with processing and prioritising, to be a listening ear, a voice of wisdom, a repository for the stories I carry. Luckily, the person I asked was willing, and this morning's first activity was a cycle out to meet her. From there I went directly to try and help a young person enrol in college and watched first the hope, then the heart-break, as this highly articulate, incredibly motivated youngster was told she hadn't been in the country long enough to access the education she was so single-minded about pursuing. She wept, I managed not to. It was a day of bouncing (well biking) directly from one thing to the next, because from there it was straight into our Friday afternoon Stories group session. I did have a vague plan, but in the end we sat, we chatted, we laughed, we drank tea, we ate the most amazing cheesecake, and just like that it was 5pm. I picked up the post on my way upstairs and was touched and delighted to find myself in possession of a beautiful handwritten card from a friend.

Saturday: Popped out first thing to get some ingredients for dinner (even if the city centre isn't quite back to pre-pandemic busy-ness levels, before 10am is the only sensible time to shop on a Saturday). Even without that reasoning, I needed to be back in time to go swimming with very dear friends of mine: cue three very, very excited children and a whole lot of fun! It was then a quick turn around to be back out, on my bike, to go and meet potential new Birch hosts. Between swimming and cycling, I definitely reached this evening feeling the right kind of tired, but still enjoyed catching up on zoom with another friend and hearing all about the excitement of a first week at university. 

And just like that, we reach the end of another week. Of course in between there's all the little bits and bobs which seem scarcely worthy of a mention but which actually matter quite a lot, but hopefully these edited highlights capture for posterity something of life right now.