The Next Day

It was a peculiar night. I slept the dreamy sleep of the very-jetlagged from 7pm till 2am and woke, extremely hungry. Warmed up some good soup and a bagel and ate ravenously, then went back to bed and found that I was wide awake. Annoyed at this silly mismanagement of jetlag, I extracted Bill Bryson's At Home: A Short History of Private Life from the mountain of books next to the bed and read as far as 'The Drawing Room' before dozing again. I intend to be much more sensible tonight, although my eyelids already feel like lead.

One of the things I was absolutely set on doing while in London was to visit St Helen's Bishopsgate, the church I attended irregularly last time I was here. So, after a hearty meal of porridge, I checked the Transport for London website to make sure that the Northern Line was running (it's all a bit hit-and-miss with the snow, and others things which I shall mention shortly. Oh, and that was a dreadful pun just now - keep reading and you'll know why -). It was, and so I made my way to Liverpool St Station without mishap, and to church on the dot of 10:30. And, glory be, it was a Carols service! Not just any Carols service: a pipe organ, trumpets, and a choir of sopranos in the loft. Incidentally, the church building dates back to 1210 and has all the requisite bits added on over centuries, fabulous timber arches and ancient plaques on walls, that sort of thing; so it was a thoroughly stunning experience. There were four Oxbridge types standing behind me, marked by the colours in their scarves, and I was thrilled when they started singing in pleasant baritone harmonies - not in a showy manner, but for their own enjoyment. I stopped singing altogether at that point because I couldn't take in that and the richness of the soaring sopranos too. Also, I learned a new song, the lyrics of which I shall write out presently.

You'd think that was enough, and indeed I thought I was sated, but then the Rev. Paul Clarke stood up to deliver a sermon, and by golly, it was a stunner. He chose Isaiah 9:1-7 as his text and his theme was Jesus as Wonderful Counsellor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. I rejoiced in it and wanted to laugh and cry all at once because it was so beautifully illustrated; the glorious kingship of Christ, established and upheld with justice and righteousness forevermore.

I stuck around afterwards to investigate the bookshop, restrained myself admirably from buying Don Carson's commentary on 1 Corinthians, drank of the mulled beverages, and then took off. I was really hoping to strike up conversations, so that was disappointing, but it didn't dim the wonder of the service.

I thought I'd tramp around for a bit in the sludgy-yet-treacherous snow, and ended up at St Paul's Cathedral; you can't go in on Sundays because of all the services, but (and this trick I learned five years ago) you can enter the subterranean gift shop and hear the magnificent choir from above, which I did. Rejecting the offerings of the gift shop as too popish for my reformed low-church sensibilities, I crossed the Millenium Bridge to the Tate Modern and paid my homage there, more out of duty than delight. I find one needs to be in a colourful peasanty mood to really appreciate the surrealists, and my mood was an elevated one, not at all suited to the vagaries of modern installations. So I tramped on out of there and around the Thames for a while, and then home. Not before taking this picture of the Tate on my iPhone, however, which for some reason reminded me of a Bruegel:

Predictably, by this time the Northern Line was out of action, not because of the snow, but because of "a body on the tracks." This was announced in such a matter-of-fact way that I was sure I'd misheard it; but no, there it was, "body on the tracks" (hence the earlier pun, cue wincing). With some nifty recalculations, I found a way home, snuggled up on the couch to listen to Rosie Thomas and finish Bill Bryson, and did my best not to fall asleep.

I haven't decided what tomorrow holds. Maybe the National Gallery, Covent Garden, that sort of thing. I also want to visit Spitalfields market, and maybe have a Brick Lane curry. Who knows? It's all very whimmy.


Here are the lyrics to the carol I didn't know, but loved:

Lord, you were rich beyond all splendour,
yet, for love's sake, became so poor:
leaving your throne in glad surrender,
sapphire-paved courts for stable floor:
Lord, you were rich beyond all splendour,
yet, for love's sake, became so poor.

You are our God beyond all praising,
yet, for love's sake, became a man;
stooping so low, but sinners raising
Heav'n-wards, by your eternal plan:
you are our God beyond all praising,
yet, for love's sake, became a man.

Lord, you are love beyond all telling,
Saviour and King, we worship you;
Immanuel, within us dwelling,
make us and keep us pure and true:
Lord, you are love beyond all telling,
Saviour and King, we worship you.

Frank Houghton (1894-1972)