<p>The town of Yarm, where I live, is divided by a railway viaduct, which dominates the town, cutting it in two.  It’s not well-known outside the area, yet it’s one of the longest in the UK (only 5 are longer) with 43 arches stretching ½ mile, and rising over 100 feet above the River Tees. [&hellip;]</p>

<p>Back in 1966, in my first year at college, we were taught about questionnaires and how to create them. In one session, we were given a short questionnaire to complete, and the results were compiled and analysed during the lecture. Accuracy and honesty had been emphasised before we started. My own answers were judged unreliable, [&hellip;]</p>

<p>Once upon a time, long, long ago, I was going to be a potter. Seriously: a real potter making pots to sell in my own workshop. A career change from teaching in fact. It never happened. This is the story. At college I trained as an art teacher, where for the first time I was [&hellip;]</p>

<p> Nine or ten years ago I had a defining moment, never forgotten. I was climbing Helvellyn in the Lake District, one of my favourite walks. After the longest, hardest climb of the hike up the shoulder of Birkhouse Moor, I got to Hole-in-the-Wall, feeling strong and fit, and continued to Striding Edge. At the end [&hellip;]</p>

<p>Inevitably, this post is thoughts on Easter, the greatest of our Christian festivals and a time for reflection. It’s a story of contrasts: an infinite agony beyond human endurance began on Thursday in Gethsemane, continued through extended, excruciating torture to a dreadful death on Friday, then life and joy renewed in the glorious resurrection on [&hellip;]</p>

<p>In prehistoric times the written word was hand-made wall pictures. Eventually marks in clay tablets appeared, later quills and ink, then steel nibs, then fountain pens (the most elegant way to make a mark—lets not even mention biros). Documents, ledgers, receipts—all commercial records were once hand written. Time consuming, even with a fountain pen. In [&hellip;]</p>

<p>Anticipation is a huge part of Christmas, and memories add to it. I remember carol singing at Christmas. Groups of the braver kids would go round the estate, singing “Hark the Herald” or “While Shepherds Watched” at likely doors, hoping for chocolate or a sixpence—but lucky if they got a penny to share. Teenagers and [&hellip;]</p>

<p>I can’t help comparing the General Conference of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, held last weekend, and the funeral of Queen Elizabeth II, two weeks previous. Both were world events, both involved millions of viewers, both involved introspection and deep thought, both generated an emotional and spiritual response. The differences in setting [&hellip;]</p>

<p>On Sunday 19th June I spoke in a Fathers Day service. My sermon was based on this post which I had already worked on. If you were at church in Billingham that day you might find some of the following familiar. But since attendance was small (maybe they got a whiff that I was speaking), [&hellip;]</p>

<p>In May my daughter Beth and her husband Michael flew from California to spend several weeks with us. One of Beth’s tasks was to sort out a mountain of stuff she left in the attic after emigrating thirteen years ago. What to keep, what to throw away? The process was long, as she was sucked [&hellip;]</p>

<p>Fifteen or twenty years ago I was at a training meeting in Berlin. One evening a trivial event occurred. A few of us were walking from the meeting to our hotel, along a footpath. Suddenly from behind there was a loudly tinkling bell and a loudly complaining German (lycra-clad etc.) on a bike. We had [&hellip;]</p>

<p>Last night was bonfire night. Fires and fireworks in remembrance of Guy Fawkes and the failed Gunpowder Plot of 1605. It doesn’t grab my attention anymore, though it’s impossible to ignore entirely with bangs, whizzes and crackles going off throughout the night. Today during my morning jog I discovered the object in my photo on [&hellip;]</p>