Who moved my cheese?
The last few days have been as mad rush -- not much time to write anything with travelling to Holy Week services far away. Yesterday we stayed after the morning service at St Nicholas of Japan parish in Brixton to decorate the epitaphios, and returned to Pretoria at 3 pm because our son Simon had to get to work at the bookshop where he works part-time. Our daughter Bridget had been asked to sing in the choir at the Russian Church of St Sergius, where there is a difficult piece as important to the Russians as the "Casiani" is to the Greeks on Holy Tuesday. They know nothing of Bridegroom Matins, only of "Cassiani". which mystified our choir for many years, when people would phone to ask when it was. But this logistics proved impossible.
We rushed back to Brixton for the 12 Gospels Service, and my wife Val forgot to hang the Pascha cheese to drip. She did it in the evening when we got back. And this morning, when our son wanted a shower, she said he couldn't have one, or else she would be asking "Who moved my cheese?"
In the few minutes between arriving home from one service and rushing off to the next, there are always 25 things to do. "Do you have a stapler?" "I want to fetch the post". And now, "Who moved my cheese?"
We rushed back to Brixton for the 12 Gospels Service, and my wife Val forgot to hang the Pascha cheese to drip. She did it in the evening when we got back. And this morning, when our son wanted a shower, she said he couldn't have one, or else she would be asking "Who moved my cheese?"
In the few minutes between arriving home from one service and rushing off to the next, there are always 25 things to do. "Do you have a stapler?" "I want to fetch the post". And now, "Who moved my cheese?"