Mary kindly answered my question in the Bach posting: 'No, not chance at all.' And of course I agree. I suppose I'd identify that as a major product of faith: life has meaning. It's not a random succession of chance events. Never was. Never will be.
Jane's made our Christmas cake today. The fruit was soaked overnight. This morning she mixed the rest. Remember when your mother let you scrape out the bowl? Well, Jane gave me a teaspoonful - not bad! And the new oven seems to have done a good job of the baking - nice and even. So now she's wrapping it in foil to mature until it's ready to be iced. Happy days! Talking of which we're looking forward to a visit this weekend from my fellow blogger, Sam, and his family. I hope they're not too disappointed with the new house - which of course is smaller than the vicarage, and chickenless. He and his sister Rachel enjoyed collecting the eggs every day. I fear feeding two goldfish won't be quite as much fun.
Yesterday Jane introduced me to the joys of shopping in Didcot, which were considerable, I must say. Much better than the tawdry mess that the centre of Oxford has become. Cornmarket is a shocking amalgam of styles and shabby shop fronts, or rather mainly coffee-bars and fast food outlets. Anyway found a great shop in Didcot, Robert Dyas, where we bought a wind-up front and rear light which I hope will fit on my electric wheel-chair for night-time journeys. One minute's wind will give half an hour's light. Sounds eco-friendly. We also ventured into son of Woolworths, Alworths, not as much, but lots of the old favourites, like Pickn'Mix sweets, toys and household goods. Seemed to me well-done. Rumour has it that the old Woolies in Wantage is going to be Cargo. It'll be nice to have something there again.
PS I have a feeling that it's Stir Up Sunday this weekend. That's pudding-making time. My Anglican readers will be reassured to know that I can still recite the OLD collect by heart. And talking of things Anglican I guess we attended a historic event last Sunday evening in the licensing of the redoubtable and unstoppable Barbara Webb as priest in charge of the parish of Shippon near Abingdon. I don't know quite how to explain the historic nature of the occasion, except to say that Barbara would have been entitled to retire quite a few times.