Secunda and I were walking in the Queensday market (where kids sell their own outgrown things and household items their parents have no more use for; ours once earned 40 euros between them and spent it all on other stuff, and ice cream) when an announcement was made over the speakers of the music stage. PA systems being what they are, I understood “Apeldoorn” and Secunda understood “the market closes at 3 o’clock”, and we both kind of gathered that events had been cancelled.

I thought that the market was scheduled to close at 3 o’clock (it was 2:45), and that events had been cancelled because there wasn’t enough public. I’d noticed before that the town seemed very quiet for Queensday and assumed that everybody had gone to Apeldoorn (which is, after all, only about 10 miles away) because Queen Beatrix was visiting that town with lots of her family.

When we were home, the bell rang. It was someone I know slightly who lives nearby, and a woman I also know by sight, possibly his wife. The first thing they asked was “have you heard the radio?” No, we don’t listen to the radio, and we don’t watch TV either, what’s up? “There’s been an accident in Apeldoorn, people have been killed, everything’s been called off, you have to take the flag down or you’ll have the police at the door.” “Or fly it at half-mast,” the woman added.

I’m not going to fly the flag at half-mast if I don’t know what for, so we took it inside and I went to check on news sites: some madman drove his car through the crowd in the royal celebration.

I realised then that I’m not going to fly the flag at half-mast for people I don’t know, either[1]: if it had been the queen, or any of her family, yes, I would have put it back at half-mast. Not that it’s any less bad when it’s random unknown people (two three men and two women were killed, and six five men, four women, two teenagers and a nine-year-old kid were wounded) but it’s less public and world-shattering.

[1] Except on the Fourth of May, commemoration of the fallen of WWII. We all know those people.

I’m still a bit shaken, with a strange mixture of feelings and questions. How would it have been if a madman had driven through the crowd in some town where the queen wasn’t? Did he really mean to hit the queen— and if so, why was he so clumsy about it? When he was cut from the wreck of his car, he seems to have said that his action was aimed against the royal family. Fortunately (for the royal family) there was a handy monument in the way which he crashed against. The Twitter buzz has it that he only wanted to make a point, to kill himself in the sight of the queen; the latest news is that he’s almost succeeded.

What I’m most afraid of is that this will spark more anti-terror measures, more surveillance, more fear, more distance, more restrictions, less unconcerned feasting— less freedom, as almost every incident recently has caused security to clamp down more tightly, whether that’s sensible or not.

My glass cleaner wouldn’t squirt, though there was a centimetre or so left in the bottle.

(warning: 3 pictures after the cut)

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And I liked it so much. It used to be my board for pungent things like onions and ginger and garlic and hot peppers, so the other chopping boards wouldn’t reek of it. In the old house it fell between the fridge and the cupboard and I couldn’t reach it until we moved, but when I had it again I realised how much I had missed it. That was the only time it saw the inside of the dishwasher (and three coats of sunflower oil to get it back into shape).

And then it was worn through. Gah. We have a large round board made of hardwood so it doesn’t retain smells, so that’s what I use now, but it’s not ideal, and I think I’ll look for another small rectangular wooden board. Perhaps later this afternoon in the Queen’s Day market, come to think of it. Secunda bought me a round wooden board there last year.

ETA: Nope. Though I did buy a dark blue backpack for one euro to replace the green backpack.

Finally they’re doing something about the old tumbledown town-house between the weigh-house (now historical museum) and the toy museum. The meters-high sign seems to imply that it’s going to be a Russian restaurant. (Not much information yet behind that link; they say sneak preview soon.)

But the text the publicity people probably think looks Russian…

… is all Greek to me. Gibberish, as if someone took some lorem-ipsum text and put it in a symbol font. When it’s so easy to get real Russian lorem-ipsum text (took me less than a minute to find, and I’m not even a publicity person).

A duel, and mysterious ships
The mystery revealed

Is anyone still getting the writeups from here, rather than directly from Valdyis galsin or via my front page? If so, please speak up in comments or by mail. If nobody does within a week or so, I’ll stop posting links here.

Seventh week of Mizran, back in Turenay.

On Valdyis galsin:

Aidan writes to Cora
Cora writes to Aidan
Raisse leaves Valdis
Moyri writes from Essle

Vespers and Liturgy: quiet (17 including choir and altar) but with an actual deacon! The choir seemed to be afflicted with Plague of Frog in Throat, but it was mild and transient. Afterwards a man came to test the fire alarms— when I went to sign his papers (having been specially appointed by Fr T to do that) he said he’d been about to come earlier but then it looked as if there was a service going on. Well, yes.

While my other half was doing the non-weird shopping I did the usual weird Holy Week shopping: flower-arranging foam because the stuff that was in the base for the cross was worn to fragments after three years and the usual flower-arranging woman isn’t there; house slippers (a size too large, it turns out, because they have a different supplier that does get the size right— I was used to buying the next size up); some battery-powered bike lights because they were ridiculously cheap and we never seem to have enough; a black-pattern-on-white headscarf for Holy Saturday.

We sent Very Tall Altar Boy to the supermarket for more eggs to dye red because I’d underestimated the number we needed. The already-dyed eggs now all have crosses and the letters XB for Christos Voskrese. Rather good for Thursday; there have been years that I was finishing the eggs in the community room after Liturgy on Saturday.

After last night’s service —Matins and First Hour of Holy Thursday— I realised it would be pointless to keep a complete record of the services as I did last year. After all, most of the statistics will be the same (last night’s service was actually a few minutes shorter than the same one in 2008, though we made an effort not to read too fast). I do want to keep some kind of record, though, for myself and anyone else who is interested.

This morning when I went downstairs at 7:00 to make prosphora I thought “the crazy days have started”. Now I’m typing this, however, it occurs to me that it’s perhaps the sanest part of the year: we’re never so close to God as in these few days. The only craziness is in daily life. There’s always something unexpected— usually not to do with Holy Week at all: yesterday it was my other half having to go to the optician because his glasses had broken in his hand. (The optician and his apprentice spent about an hour trying to fix the frame, gave up, and put the glasses in a sports frame so he can at least see something). I could manage to dye eggs and make pascha, but there was no time left for laundry or kitchen floor (or indeed to sit down long enough to rest my feet enough not to hurt in church; I think this afternoon I’ll try to get a pair of inlay soles designed for people who stand a lot). Also, the church freezer turned out to be broken— it’s probably been broken for days if not weeks. Having fresh prosphora every Sunday keeps one from noticing, but I was baking ahead for three Liturgies in four days, two of them usually very well-attended. We rescued all but one bag of prosphora, and I think all the kulich (but we didn’t dare open those bags) and put them in Choirmistress’ freezer with the altar prosphora.

There’s already one house guest out of three (briefly four) expected: Very Tall Altar Boy, who is now studying his Greek from Secunda’s book. It’s a first-and-second-year book and he’s in Chapter 4 while she’s in Chapter 11. Secunda herself is doing Dutch, because she’s excused from class today but obviously not from the test on Tuesday.

Now for service 2 of 9, Vespers and Liturgy of Holy Thursday. I’m wearing my newly tie-dyed purple T-shirt that turns out to match my favourite purple top (floppy half-open shirt that needs something under it) perfectly.

Usually when the radio wakes me up at 6:30 I hit the “off” button the moment there’s a sound, because my other half’s alarm doesn’t go off until 6:40 and I want him to be able to enjoy his extra ten minutes. This morning, however, I was in bed alone because he’s in Helsinki, so I actually listened to the radio for a bit.

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Time: 4:35
Congregation: started out 3 (all men), grew to 5 or so (mixed), 1 man was left at the end
Crew: Altar: Fr T (not in the altar except at the beginning) Choir: started out 3, ended up 2, with 5 in the middle; all women (3S, 2A)
Coordination: good
Tunefulness: all right
Knees: Oh, yes. Also feet, calves, thighs, buttocks, hips, back and sides, shoulders, arms, hands, chin and throat (my black headscarf is scratchy) and forehead (there’s sand on that floor). I did manage to do all the prostrations, though the prayer of St Ephrem the Syrian in the First Hour caught me unawares.
Voice: normal, a bit wobbly at the end of Matins on account of weepiness.
Strangeness: It’s daily Matins so the Lauds are read rather than sung. I love those psalms, especially 148, “Beasts and all cattle; Creeping things and flying fowl. Kings of the earth and all peoples; Princes and all judges of the earth; Both young men and maidens; Old men and children”. Also, four hours of darkness is absolutely no preparation for having the Ninth Ode and all the rest of Matins in the light.

Lesson learnt from the Great Canon of St Andrew of Crete: however hard you try, it’s never good enough. This is a lesson I so must not learn.

Lesson learnt from the life of St Mary of Egypt: the only joy worth the trouble is what you squeeze out of the bare rock, painfully, by utter asceticism. Every bit of fun that’s easier to obtain is intrinsically sinful.

Years ago, Fr T forbade me to attend this service because it tended to teach me these lessons. It’s not for nothing that after the service it’s wine-and-oil (beer and deep-fried potato balls in my case).