Being locked into Cathedral grounds

...might sound entertaining (and it is), BUT it is not as entertaining if you ought to have found a loo before planning your walk home.

Fortunately, the pain was not so excrutiating that the clouds around the spire missed being photographed. It was really pretty, but the fog was cold! It almost made me consider knitting some legwarmers. Almost. I haven't sunk to the Flashdance level quite yet.

Now, the reason for being locked in the Cathedral is kind of funny. E and I were walking (or waddling, to tell the truth) back from Lisha's flat, where we had enjoyed a marvellous Chinese New Year dinner cooked by Lisha, her mum visiting for several months from China, and her 16-year-old Chinese lodger! A long walk was really needed after 3 hours of constant feeding (water-lily salad, aubergine dumplings, leek pancakes, pork skin, stir fry, meat dumplings, and thai chili soup), but E opposed my idea to go the dodgy way through alleys around the south side of the cathedral. His option was to go through the pedestrian gate that was in the process of being locked by a security person. So, I trotted along, too.

And was quite happy to see the gorgeous light on the clouds around the spire. Until I noticed the closed Ethelbert Gate (the south vehicle gate)... and E walked ahead to find the closed Erpingham Gate. Titter. So, there was some large amount of sighing during the walk back around the entire cathedral -- along with fervent prayers that the Bishopsgate entrance would be open, as desecrating the church grounds would have been poor form (we kind of figured it would be -- after all, people live in the Close and posh people do not go climbing over medieval walls and gates after an exquisite dinner out. And sometimes those dinners might go on past 10.30pm...).

We walked along past the massive evergreen at the back of the cathedral, where scenes from Dean Spanley were filmed. And were very joyous to find Bishop's Gate open -- whew!

Then we found a shortcut through to the river at St. Martin at Palace (it is so cool to live somewhere that you can feel safe tootling around in strange territory at night!), and walked up to Magdalen Street on Quay Side (across the river is Fishergate). The reason it is called St. Martin at Palace is that this medieval church is directly across the street from the walls of the Bishop's Palace, part of the Close, I suppose.

Walking up the river, there was absolutely no wind, which E commented on (coming from the constant windy-ness of Wales). This made for nice reflection of the Ribs of Beef, which is quite a pretty Dutch-influenced construct. And which has some nice ales on most of the time.

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Today, we had cake at work! An odd thing in Britain is that the birthday person is responsible for bringing one's own cakes (or cookies, or something generally sugary and fattening) for everyone to share. My opinion of this practice has not been fully formed; it just seems like the birthday person should have cakes brought for them. Maybe that is just me being culturo-centric and only-childish. One is also meant to bring in cakes on one's anniversary of work, and then pretty much any other occasion possible :) Offices pitch in for birthday cards and there is much subterfuge in obtaining signatures and well-wishes in an inter-office envelope, which everyone knows is a card. It is a funny thing.

The reason for cake today was that it was Sally's birthday. I am quite pleased that her sons have gotten her a Cinema City membership for a pressie, and we can pehaps lure her out of an evening now!

Sally and I have also begun the final evolutionary adaptation to our new space, after two office moves in the past two weeks (most everybody else moved once). Admittedly, the shelves in this picture are now full (the second desk is mine and the far one is Wayne's), and more are due to be hung, so that Sally's desk will indubitably be tidier than mine...

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After the trauma of a move last week, we did try to liven things up by attending a ceilidh (click on 'Kier Hardie Ceilidhs') in preparation for a certain upcoming event in Eire[Sally has (with her therapeutic baking efforts) recovered from the shock of being whelmed by so much madness in one week]. There is apparently a ceilidh in Norwich on the 3rd Wednesday of every month, and Clare, Eileen, Sally and I went along -- this was the first one possible since I found it; we didn't quite know what to expect. But it was a grand time!

It was absolutely jam-packed and between the cold and vigorous exercise, my lungs are apparently in need of some work. Sally questioned later why she had thought it was a good idea when I suggested it in November, but we may be able to peer pressure her into returning next month. She was quite dubious after having noticed that it was at the Working Man's Club, and alarmed by E's non-appearance for the same reason. She was most dubious of the loos, and we all giggled at her. We got her onto the floor for 2 1/2 dances; but we have a cunning plan for E to assist in upping this number at the next ceilidh.

Admittedly, the caller was not the best, but this consolation did nothing to help Sally feel comfortable in not knowing what to do (she was slightly annoyed and flumoxed). It was mayhem during some dances! There were loads of students there as well (very cool) but some of the 'old hands' were not impressed by the flailing about in wrong directions -- I got a cutting glare for trying to 'Thread the Needle' the wrong way. One man totally looked in need of some castor oil. Oh, we are going back, we are! (and future Naarrich visitors need to plan their sojourns around the 3rd Wednesday of the month...)

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And finally, a sweet (and tear-jerking) story:

Jack is the Methodist minister who was caretaker/tenant of St. Clement's for 30 years. He comes across the street every week to visit us (and to fuss at me for being there in the dire cold or to scold at me not to wear myself out cleaning). For a few weeks (since we got back to St. Clement's after Christmas), there has been a red rose in a tiny vase on the candle stand.

Many years ago, a lady asked Jack to place a red rose and light a candle three times a year on her behalf in memory of her son who had died: one for his birthday, one on his obit day and one at Christmas-time. The lady died about 2 weeks ago, so this is the last red rose and candle for her son. Jack was going to the funeral on Monday, and he was torn as to whether or not to take the rose and place it on her coffin...