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lprovenThe second weekend of June was one of a lot of firsts. I flew back to London for the last planned trip of clearing out my house, which I'm going to sell. I don't have the money to properly refurbish it to maximise its rental value -- and so far, I am enjoying my long-planned much-procrastinated move abroad. I don't plan to return any time soon.
I also flew with a new airline to me -- WizzAir, a Hungarian budget operator. Pleasant, cheerful and friendly; recommended. Flying without luggage, or even a jacket, was also a novelty -- it does make life much easier (and a bit cheaper, too, on the budget ones).
I returned for the funeral of my friend Ken Brown. I knew Ken for over 20 years via the medium of CIX, although we didn't meet face-to-face for over a decade. Until then, he was just a giant brain online, an immaculately-spoken quick wit with encyclopædic knowledge of biology, computers and seemingly almost everything.
In his CIX résumé, Ken described himself as a "Christian of the evangelical sort", but he never evangelised to me -- indeed in our conversations religion very seldom occurred, and I think I recall him cheerfully mocking Creationism, especially Young Earth Creationism. As not merely atheist but antitheist, I don't have a huge number of religious friends; indeed I've lost a few because of my unwillingness to accord it any more respect than the organized churches accord atheism. (This, incidentally, can be typified by the famed quote from the Roman Catholic cardinal of Britain saying that atheists were missing some essential part of being human. Yeah, love you too, pal.) Those friends of mine who are religious are the sort that can take my disbelief with the sort of cheerful, even affectionate mockery that I accord their faith. Thus, if it's not obvious, if he was indeed normally evangelist, then saying that Ken did not evangelise to me is some of the highest praise that I can accord to someone religious.
A sad loss.
His funeral was on a fine hot summer's day. It was modelled on a 17th century Mass, apparently. I have never been to the Christian ritual of celebrating communion before, and it was an odd and unexpected ritual to observe. I don't pray -- no point, nobody there to pray to -- but I do enjoy singing and sang along with the hymns. (Well, all but the first, which I'd never heard before.) Studying the order of service, I was delighted to see that the last song was the Red Flag, the international Communist anthem. I am no more Communist than I am Christian; I believe in politics as little as I do in gods (albeit in a different way) although as I age I am becoming distinctly more sympathetic to left-wing views. But it would have delighted me to sing that distinctly unspiritual song in a church. Sadly, though, the organist had lost the music and it was replaced with another hymn.
Apparently, the family were to sing it at the graveside, but the handful of CIXen at the service decided not to go.
So we adjourned to Ken's local, the Rising Sun. It was friendly enough and I saw a number of old friends I've not seen in years, but there was only one ale -- London Pride. That was a surprise and a disappointment. I'd never have thought Ken's favourite haunt wouldn’t have a choice of ales.
And somewhere between the post-service tea and cakes at the church and the pub, as I switched my spectacles for my prescription sunglasses, I lost my glasses. I have broken a couple of pairs, but I don't think I've ever mislaid my specs in my life before. I am very careful about them normally; my myopia is so severe (circa -7 dioptres) that I am helpless without optical aids. So I was forced to make my way home in the dark, wearing sunglasses, which may be cool but is not practical. For the rest of my stay, I've been wearing a really old pair from about five years ago. I still am, although new ones have been ordered.
Saturday was a day of very hard work, clearing, sorting and packing the stuff left in my house. I left it more or less empty except for piles of things to be professionally packed and moved into storage. Another sad day, in a different way. My little house, so far on the outskirts of London that technically it's in Surrey, was the first place I bought and is the place I've lived longest in my life. It is packed with memories, and while many of them are good ones, it's also where I lived with my fiancée. We were already together when I bought it. Much of the furniture was![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kjersti's, bought over from Oslo; the rest were hand-me-downs from my mum. I've given almost all of it away to charity. Too many memories, too much pain.
I also flew with a new airline to me -- WizzAir, a Hungarian budget operator. Pleasant, cheerful and friendly; recommended. Flying without luggage, or even a jacket, was also a novelty -- it does make life much easier (and a bit cheaper, too, on the budget ones).
I returned for the funeral of my friend Ken Brown. I knew Ken for over 20 years via the medium of CIX, although we didn't meet face-to-face for over a decade. Until then, he was just a giant brain online, an immaculately-spoken quick wit with encyclopædic knowledge of biology, computers and seemingly almost everything.
In his CIX résumé, Ken described himself as a "Christian of the evangelical sort", but he never evangelised to me -- indeed in our conversations religion very seldom occurred, and I think I recall him cheerfully mocking Creationism, especially Young Earth Creationism. As not merely atheist but antitheist, I don't have a huge number of religious friends; indeed I've lost a few because of my unwillingness to accord it any more respect than the organized churches accord atheism. (This, incidentally, can be typified by the famed quote from the Roman Catholic cardinal of Britain saying that atheists were missing some essential part of being human. Yeah, love you too, pal.) Those friends of mine who are religious are the sort that can take my disbelief with the sort of cheerful, even affectionate mockery that I accord their faith. Thus, if it's not obvious, if he was indeed normally evangelist, then saying that Ken did not evangelise to me is some of the highest praise that I can accord to someone religious.
A sad loss.
His funeral was on a fine hot summer's day. It was modelled on a 17th century Mass, apparently. I have never been to the Christian ritual of celebrating communion before, and it was an odd and unexpected ritual to observe. I don't pray -- no point, nobody there to pray to -- but I do enjoy singing and sang along with the hymns. (Well, all but the first, which I'd never heard before.) Studying the order of service, I was delighted to see that the last song was the Red Flag, the international Communist anthem. I am no more Communist than I am Christian; I believe in politics as little as I do in gods (albeit in a different way) although as I age I am becoming distinctly more sympathetic to left-wing views. But it would have delighted me to sing that distinctly unspiritual song in a church. Sadly, though, the organist had lost the music and it was replaced with another hymn.
Apparently, the family were to sing it at the graveside, but the handful of CIXen at the service decided not to go.
So we adjourned to Ken's local, the Rising Sun. It was friendly enough and I saw a number of old friends I've not seen in years, but there was only one ale -- London Pride. That was a surprise and a disappointment. I'd never have thought Ken's favourite haunt wouldn’t have a choice of ales.
And somewhere between the post-service tea and cakes at the church and the pub, as I switched my spectacles for my prescription sunglasses, I lost my glasses. I have broken a couple of pairs, but I don't think I've ever mislaid my specs in my life before. I am very careful about them normally; my myopia is so severe (circa -7 dioptres) that I am helpless without optical aids. So I was forced to make my way home in the dark, wearing sunglasses, which may be cool but is not practical. For the rest of my stay, I've been wearing a really old pair from about five years ago. I still am, although new ones have been ordered.
Saturday was a day of very hard work, clearing, sorting and packing the stuff left in my house. I left it more or less empty except for piles of things to be professionally packed and moved into storage. Another sad day, in a different way. My little house, so far on the outskirts of London that technically it's in Surrey, was the first place I bought and is the place I've lived longest in my life. It is packed with memories, and while many of them are good ones, it's also where I lived with my fiancée. We were already together when I bought it. Much of the furniture was
kjersti's, bought over from Oslo; the rest were hand-me-downs from my mum. I've given almost all of it away to charity. Too many memories, too much pain.
