Rosamundi's ramblings

What, on this blog?

Who’d have thought?

Tomorrow, I have my Chapter Interview to see if I can make my Final Promises (the ones that end “for all my life.” Yes, those ones).

If you’re inclined to do so, please pray. I, personally, shall be badgering all the Dominican Saints and Blesseds, because I need all the help I can get.

(Click image for full size)

Via Airbrushed For Change.

On the twenty fifth day of December, the twenty sixth of the moon;
In the five thousand one hundred and ninety-ninth year since the creation of the world,
when in the beginning God created the heavens and the earth;
In the two thousand nine hundred and fifty-seventh year since the flood;
In the two thousand and fifteenth year since the birth of Abraham;
In the one thousand five hundred and tenth year since the exodus of the people of Israel from Egypt under Moses;
In the one thousand and thirty second year since the anointing of David as King;
In the sixty fifth week according to the prophecy of Daniel;
In the one hundred and ninety-fourth Olympiad;
In the seven hundred and fifty-second year after the foundation of the city of Rome;
In the forty-second year of the reign of the Emperor Octavian Augustus,
when the whole world was at peace, in the sixth age of the world,
Jesus Christ, eternal God and Son of the eternal Father,
longing to hallow the world by his most gracious coming,
being conceived by the Holy Spirit,
and nine months after his conception was born
in Bethlehem of Judah as man from the Virgin Mary.
The Nativity of our Lord Jesus Christ according to the flesh.

This made me laugh so hard.

Partly because I grew up with two Pyrenean Mountain Dogs, one of whom rejoiced in the kennel name of Inloc Electron Shell. Possibly the most badly-misnamed dog ever in the world, he was not the sharpest knife in the drawer – the great white hunter once spent half an hour stalking, creeping closer and closer to the fly on the wallpaper, and then he leapt and smacked his nose on the wall. It wasn’t a fly, it was an ink blot. And another time, he was ambling round the garden, sniffing the flowers, and he got stung by a bee. So he stuck his nose back in the flower to see what stung him and got a matching sting on the other side.

One to keep in the office in order to charge my extra-ordinarily geeky new phone. Not only does it have the picture of St Catherine of Alexandria from the post below as the wallpaper, its ring tone is some Dominican Friars singing the Salve Regina.

Anyway. Below is typed the text from the piece of paper that fell out the box when I ripped it open:

Instructions for use:
To use, plug mains charger directly into a readily accessible socket outlet located near to the equipment. Connect to your compatible handset to charge the phone’s battery. You can use your phone whilst charging.
For additional information, please refer to your handset user guide.

I would venture to suggest that if you need “how to charge your phone” instructions that go into this much detail, you should probably stick to using two tin cans and a bit of string. Or possibly carrier pigeons. Or semaphore.

I am surprised at the lack of dire warnings about the inadvisability of using it in the bath, or sticking the connector in your eye, or wrapping the cord really tightly about your neck and giving it a yank.

Out of the depths have I cried unto thee, O LORD.
Lord, hear my voice: let thine ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications.
If thou, LORD, shouldest mark iniquities, O Lord, who shall stand?
But there is forgiveness with thee, that thou mayest be feared.
I wait for the LORD, my soul doth wait, and in his word do I hope.
My soul waiteth for the Lord more than they that watch for the morning: I say, more than they that watch for the morning.
Let Israel hope in the LORD: for with the LORD there is mercy, and with him is plenteous redemption.
And he shall redeem Israel from all his iniquities.

St Catherine, I love you dearly, but why are all your chapels on the top of hills?

It’s because of the views, isn’t it?

(As usual, more photos if you click through, or click here, and photos of the swans will be going up later in the week).

I hurtled down to Westminster Cathedral at lunchtime, St Paul’s bookshop was (a) open (b) had the right Bible, and (c) it was £10 cheaper than the Oratory in Oxford. Woo, and, indeed, hoo.

I also acquired a bonus Our Lady of Walsingham prayer card.

I had to go to the bank to pay some cheques in on the way, and the queue was absolutely enormous, with only two out of the eight cashiers’ windows open (it was cheques for work, so I couldn’t use the machine).

I freely admit that my constant prayer is “God grant me patience, and grant it me now.” I hate waiting in queues and if you want to get me absolutely incandescent, start walking in front of me really, really slowly in such a manner that I can’t get past you, so you can imagine how thrilled I was at this state of affairs.

However, I always carry a book with me, so I yanked out Dante’s Paradiso and started reading, because it was either that or mutter a lot.

And then a bell rang, deep in the bowels of the bank’s back office, a door opened, and enough staff to fill all the empty cashiers’ windows appeared.

Passive-aggressive literacy for the win.

Admittedly I am after a specific Bible, a Catholic RSV, either hardback or leather bound. I did have the Ignatius Press edition, and it’s lovely, but it didn’t survive being baptised with coffee. Naturally, the coffee-Bible interface happened after I spent ages tabbing the pages.

On Friday night I hurtled down to the Catholic Truth Society shop by Westminster Cathedral. Whilst they had the edition I was after, they only had it in paperback, and I don’t like paperback Bibles, the pages fall out. They also had a travel edition in a zipped leather case with a Miraculous Medal on the pull tab (this made me giggle). I went to the St Paul bookshop round the corner, only to discover that it has a somewhat flexible attitude to their closing time – I got to the door at 1750, knowing they close at 1800, only to discover the door being locked and the closed sign up.

“No worries,” I thought, and off I trotted to the massive Waterstone’s on Piccadilly, via Hatchard’s, which is where Mowbray’s Religious Books ended up after the Waterstone’s on Margaret Street turned into Bravissimo. (Pay attention. There will be a quiz later).

Nooooo. There were KJVs as far as the eye could see, rainbow-bound Good News Bibles (neither good, nor news, nor the Bible), more NIVs than you can shake a stick at, but no RSV, Catholic edition or not. I have a King James Bible, the Good News Bible gives me the fear with all those faceless people, and I don’t like the NIV.

Harrumph.

“No worries,” I thought, “I am going to Oxford tomorrow, surely I must be able to get it there.”

Waterstone’s again had KJVs as far as the eye could see, rainbow-bound Good News Bibles, more NIVs than you can shake a stick at, but no RSV.

Blackwell’s had the edition I wanted, but in paperback, and the Oratory bookshop had it leather-bound, but they only take cash, and I didn’t have enough cash on me…

Apparently it is that hard to buy a Bible.

For Your Tomorrow, We Gave Our Today.”