Sitting in the school chapel this morning, the memorial tablet loomed large across the nave. Outside the chapel there is a terrace on which stands a large Celtic cross commemorating those who fell in the Great War, and one of the grey granite school buildings from the 1920s was dedicated in memory of the fallen, but it is on the tablet in the chapel that the dead are recorded name by name.
Memories of many of the dead must have been vivid, some left in the late 19th Century, but …
Resplendent in his clerical suit and gaiters, the bishop stood before the assembled children of the school and in deep episcopal voice, tuned by years of port and cigars, boomed out over the children’s heads.
“I will give sixpence to anyone who can tell me who I am?”
The hand of a little boy near the front was raised and a trembling voice said, “Please sir, you are God”.
The bishop look bemused, but managed a kindly smile.
“I’m not, young man, but here’s a shilling”.
The story comes to …
One Sunday evening in 1992, the telephone rang. It was a ward sister at the local psychiatric hospital, the Rector of the neighbouring parish who was Church of Ireland chaplain to the hospital could not be contacted and they were anxious that a patient receive a call.
The hospital was only four miles away and was reached in a few minutes. A lady from the ward had just returned from the district hospital where she had been diagnosed as having an aneurism. Her life was not necessarily in imminent danger, …
There was an “understanding” between them.
His farm was on good Co Down land, rolling drumlin countryside. A neat dwelling house, regularly painted in a sober pale grey; solid and as reliable as its owner.
Her house was a few miles away. A white slate roofed cottage at the end of a bumpy lane; at “the top o’ the loanen”, as it was described in the mixture of Ulster Scots and Hiberno-English that was spoken in the district.
They would be married one day.
Her mother was long lived and …
It was the third Sunday in July and the rain was lashing down.
The annual Tolpuddle Martyrs Memorial rally was drenched. Dampness permeated everything. Even with its poles resting on the ground, as the rally gathered around the platform for the speeches, the banner had become heavy; the fiery yellow colours at the centre of the banner had been dulled by the soaking. Standing in the rain, even the cheery notes of the brass band had ceased as the speakers began their addresses.
It came the turn of a government …
It is a long time since Mr Howe’s A Level economics class at Strode College in Somerset. He taught with enthusiasm and made even dry topics interesting. The supply and demand curves he drew on the blackboard brought the complexities of the market into our grasp (well, almost).
Mr Howe would explain that if capitalism was really to work, there had to be perfect competition and he would take us through the requirements of what was required if a market for good was to be perfectly competitive. His favourite illustration …