There never was a birth like this:
Hodie Christus natus est
A maid, a manger and a kiss.
Salvator apparuit.

Never would death so seal birth’s joy
Hodie Christus natus est
As when it crowned the Virgin’s boy.
Salvator apparuit.

O sweetest fruit—of womb, of tree—
Hodie Christus natus est
To eat thy flesh is to be free.
Salvator apparuit.

Of banquets and of babes the best:
Et Verbum caro factum est.

Thank you, dear Seraphic!  I did this in rather a hurry, as I’m off to Slovakia for a week tomorrow, and time has been impossibly tight for weeks now.  To all my loyal blog-followers (both of you), I apologise for my neglect of TT and your own blogs – I still luvs yaz, honest!

Anyway…

What is your chief characteristic?

Affability (I hope!)
What is your principal fault?

It used to be blithe indolence – now it’s anxious indolence
What is your favourite quality in a man?

Cheerfulness.
And in a woman?

Kind-heartedness

Who is your favourite historical figure?

The Chesterbelloc.
Who are your living heroes?

Corny, I know, but – Benedict XVI.  Or Ray Mears.  Er…
Who would you like to be, if you could?

A better version of myself – I wouldn’t be comfortable being anyone else.  Quite a lot better though.

What is your idea of earthly happiness?

Tea, books, cake, booze, “laughter and the love of friends”.

What is your idea of misery?

Wage-slavery in a stressful but unrewarding job.

Where would you like to live?

Edinburgh.  Truly.  Maybe with a cottage somewhere in the West Highlands too.

What talent would you like to have?

Diplomacy.

For what fault do you have the most toleration?

Grumpiness.
Who are your favourite painters?

Cezanne and the Scottish Colourists.

Who are your favourite composers?

Anything early, but especially Dowland, Bach, and Palestrina.

What is your favourite colour?

Moss-green.

Of all things, what do you most detest?

Boorishness.
Have you got a motto?

Not really, but “Amor vincit omnia” is pretty good.
What would you like to do right now?

Go home and eat, sleep and leave my packing till tomorrow.  And I will!

Whilst I’m the lucky recipient of all the traffic Fr Finigan has kindly put my way (thank you again, Father!), it would be quite wrong of me not to advise my many current readers of an opportunity to do themselves a huge literary favour and perform a corporal work of mercy at the same time.

Sell your children (but only if that should be what it takes to raise such a paltry sum) to buy a copy of Seraphic Single’s The Widow of Saint-Pierre.  It is the novel I have enjoyed most this year, and it’s good, clean, Catholic stuff – witty, wise, supremely well-written and a cracking good read.  And the author is undeservedly broke.  And wants to travel to Bonnie Scotland.  From Canada.  And has a fab blog.   But doesn’t know I’m puffing her incomparable tome (yet!).  And… well, how many good reasons do you need?  Oh, and if you don’t, the ninja Carthusians of Achiltibuie will put you on their “to do” list.

Thank you for visiting Tremendous Trifles!

Haikus are, in general, best dished up without any prefatory comment.  But in this case, I think some explanation is required. [More, alas, than I had initially forseen: see comments...]

For me (and I pretty much made this rule up myself) a haiku should capture one particular insight or reflection as conceived in a particular moment.  The other rule I bind myself to is that of strict veracity: what I write must be a faithful expression of what I actually thought or felt, not what I think it would have been cool or clever to have thought or felt.  If they’re not sincere, they’re no good.  

I can only apologise that the sincere “insight” below came to me in a Starbucks loo: no gratuitous grossness [of any description] was intended.

Starbucks Bonhomie

Not minding the pan’s

Streaked from someone else’s trip

Must count for something.

Listening to a putative display of glossolalia (apparently to-order) on the old tube last night, I caught myself smiling. 

The glossolalist in question was making a bit of a pig’s breakfast out of explaining the phenomenon with any degree of clarity.  Apart from my usual thought that it would be much more sporting of the Holy Ghost to inspire these people with the gift of actual, recognisable languages (and, as the Catholic Encyclopædia says: “The charisma of interpretation is [...] the necessary complement of glossolalia; when interpretation is not forthcoming, the speaker with tongues shall hold his peace.”), another thought also flitted through the draughty chasm of my mind.  I know, two at a time: working to capacity.

Isn’t it odd, I mused, that those who appear to be most effortlessly eloquent in these strange tongues are frequently those who are least eloquent in talking about them (or anything else) in tongues which are familiar to the rest of us?  Do these tongue-tied individuals, I wonder, ever reflect with chagrin on the irony of that?