I. Conservatism is an anti-ideological ideology. It is as uncomfortable being labelled an ideology, though it is, as secular humanism is uncomfortable being labelled a religion, though it is. Many have tried to precisely extrapolate the tenets of conservatism, most noticeably Russell Kirk in the last century, but I believe this to be a somewhat fruitless enterprise. To me, conservatism seems to be the prudent attempt to balance continuity with change, erring on the cautious side of the wisdom of our elders and ancestors rather than the fashions of our day. After all, tradition, according to Chesterton, is the democracy of the dead.

Conservatism – when I say conservatism I mean of course the real pragmatic traditional Christian social ideal, my conservatism, not neo- or corporate or libertarian or whatnot – gives voices to all the epochs of civilization and progresses along a merry path of continuity. Continuity is a keystone of conservatism. Falkland said “when it is not necessary to change, it is necessary not to change.” I’d be inclined to agree. The modern way of thought – ‘liberalism’, progressivism, socialism, what have you – insists on a break with the past: a chasm between what has always been and what they would have us be. It is revolution, instead of evolution. As science has shown us, evolution is how God has made Man what he is; revolution is how Satan perverts us from what we should be. Where there has been a breach between ourselves and the past, we must fill it. Not retreat to the other side of the gap, but fill it. Restore, inspire, and create; don’t retreat.

II. In a conservative world, the Church inspires John to give to Jack. This is virtuous. In a modernist world, the State takes from John, gives half to bureaucrats, and some to Jack. This is ridiculous.

III. America, by some curious fate, stands today as the paragon of conservatism. Many find this out of step with the founding of the United States, and I believe them mistaken in so finding. When we look at the British political tradition, we can see that in many ways the American Revolution, imprudent as it may have been, fits in perfectly with English political evolution: from Runnymede, to William and Mary, then Lexington and Concord, and finally Philadelphia 1789.

Ah, but perhaps I have fallen into the danger of constructing meta-narratives. The British political tradition also has its contradictions. The freedom of the Church was considered so utterly central and important that it was the first tenet of the Magna Carta, but was then so blatantly trampelled upon by Henry VIII and his succesors (excepting Mary I). Would the great Westminster system of government – which still today governs Britain, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and of course India, the largest democracy the world has ever seen – have been possible had not the rupture between England and the rest of Christendom occurred? I believe so, others may disagree; arguments can be made either way. At the end of the day, the what-if game is not one to which we should devote much time.

During my various travels – which have been limited in comparison to those of others but I dare say very rich experiences nonetheless – I have sometimes been tempted into a system for the classification of people and peoples. There are friends, cousins, and foreigners.

Since I am an American, friends are Americans. American is a very open, wide, and varied category of person. A cabbie born in India, an accountant of Italian extraction, a stockbrocker with Irish origins, a factory worker who a few generations back is a Pole: all are Americans. A New Yorker, DCer, Virginian, a Kansan, Texan, Oklahoman, even a Californian: all are Americans.

As Americans, our cousins are varied. There are first the most obvious cousins: Brits, Canucks, Aussies, Kiwis, the Irish, and white Africans. They all might prefer their home countries, but don’t feel as if each others are quite foreign. I have lived in (or to be precisely, I currently spend most my time in) Britain and it doesn’t seem quite that foreign, though it certifiably isn’t home. I suspect (though cannot prove) this would be quite the same were I an American at Sydney, McGill, Otago, Trinity, or Rhodes instead of an American at St Andrews.

Let us therefore suppose the British, Australians, New Zealanders, Canadians, Irish, and white Africans are our first cousins. There are also other people, who seem foreign but I think would also be quite familiar to us. During my time in Argentina I discovered that the Argentine middle/upper class were entirely our cousins, not foreigners. They are also zealous Anglophiles. (The saying goes that Argentines are all Italians who speak Spanish and want to be English). However, I very much doubt the Argentine working class are cousins (and I doubt even more they are Anglophiles). I suspect a great deal of Indians are cousins, though I suspect a great deal more are foreigners. These are examples of second cousins and further. I think the remainder of the Commonwealth, West Indians, black Africans, the Hong Kong Chinese, etc., etc, fit into this category, and arguably the Filipinos as well.

We have much in common with our first and second cousins, and we much to ourselves as well. Foreigners, on the other hand, are foreign. We have little in common with them in culture, politics, tradition, or otherwise. Our only real connection with them is our common brotherhood as men created in the image of God. They are the type of people who don’t understand your ways and at whom you mutter “bloody foreigner” under your breath.

Continental Europe is an issue. Friends of mine (in the real, social sense, that is) tell me that under my system of classification the Germans/Austrians are dear misguided cousins, while the French are definitely wily foreigners, while the Italians are dear, misguided, wily, foreign cousins. I plead ignorance.

“Friends”, “cousins”, “foreigners”. Like all systems, it is a flawed one, and I would hesitate in pushing it too far, but I’ve found it holds true to a certain extent.

Santiago de Chile, May 24, 2005. Photograph by Lucas de Soto.

The past two days have been enjoyable. Yesterday, after getting my driver’s license renewed (it expired upon my twenty-first), I highed off to neighbouring Mamaroneck and had some Walter’s with Adam, recently made Bachelor of Arts from that place up in New Haven. You know, he hadn’t had one of Walter’s world-famous hot dogs in two years?!? Imagine that! And he only lives just over in Larchmont. Quel ridicule!

Nonetheless, after our great American luncheon we resolved to take advantage of my new legal status by engaging in a midday (well, early afternoon) pint in Larchmont. We were much disappointed, however, when we discovered that practically all the preferred drinking holes did not open until at least the fourth hour. Mournfully, we retreated to Adam’s front porch for some cool ginger ale, good conversation, and a flip through the paper before adjourning.

Today was leisurely as well. After dropping in for a chat at the bookshop in town, I called upon the Gills and was finally introduced to Daisy, their latest corgi, purchased during my academic period abroad. Caroline suggested I rest in the hammock while she potted some flowers in the garden, and I happily obliged. Above is the view from the hammock as Caro gives the dogs (behind the chairs) a corrective glance. (more…)

A pleasantly uninteresting flight across the realm of the Atlantic and I am happy to find myself home in New York once more. Not much sooner had my parents and I returned to our little abode in Eastchester than we were off to dinner courtesy of Uncle Matt and Aunt Naomi (who live next door to us) at a happy little place called Joe’s on Marbledale Road in Tuckahoe — an eatery quite keen on what is most often called home food: simple, filling, and particularly appropriate in this circumstance. I then had my first legal drink in the States: Brooklyn IPA (India Pale Ale). Not a poor drink, but didn’t strike my fancy terribly. I have had better pints before, legal or not.

After we all returned to the Cusack family compound, I tried to convince my mother of the efficacy of Catholic social teaching for a bit before heading into town to Roger Mahon’s house, wherein lay Michelle Carroll and good ole Will Freeman. Mikey, the Mahons’ Irish Wolfhound, is pretty much fully grown now, but of a very kind nature. Caro Gill should’ve been there but was exhausted since it was her birthday.

The Church of St. Agnes: exterior and tabernacle.

As I have often said, I always really know I’m home when I’ve heard the intoxicating incantation of the Asperges me at the 11:00 at St Agnes. The train from Bronxville is scheduled to arrive in Grand Central at 11:04 but almost always gets in two minutes before the hour, allowing just enough time to ascend to the grand concourse of that beaux-arts temple of transit, scurry through the Graybar passage, hop across Lexington Avenue to arrive at St Agnes just as the procession is finished and the Asperges commences. Today proceeded right on target.

Asperges me Domine hyssopo et mundabor,
lavabis me et super nivem dealbabor.
Misere mei, Deus, secundum magnam misericordiam tuam.
Gloria patri et filio et spiritui sancti,
erat in principio et nunc et semper et in saecula seculorum. Amen.

Asperges me Domine hyssopo et mundabor,
lavabis me et super nivem dealbabor.

The wonderful thing about the Latin mass at St Agnes is it’s always just as it should be. It’s not an over-the-top ostentatious drama as you might find at Anglo-catholic churches, nor a wailing maelstrom as at some charismatic churches, nor a banal mediocrity as at the average Marty Haugen parish. It is what it is, and it is beautiful and reflective of God’s eternal glory.

Taking the train back to Bronxville, on Metro-North’s brand spanking new rolling stock I might add, I noticed a number of new buildings which popped up along the line since I last travelled on it in the winter; chiefly in Harlem. There were about five new structures: one was bland and inspid, but three were fairly decent attempts at good New York vernacular, and one was an exceptional example of the said style. It was brick, with proper windows, a wonderful cornice, and everything you might expect of a building of its kind built in the 1900’s or thereabouts. I don’t know how it managed to get built today, nor by whom, nor do I know what it is (looked like housing), but it was most certainly a new building and I admire whoever’s behind it for making new New York architecture in the New York style. Bravo.

Now I must be off to cocktails next door at the Colonel’s. It’s good to be home.

Today marked the final barbecue I am ever likely to attend at No. 12 Queens Gardens. The current inhabitants are moving out and new, strange people will move in next year, who are foreign to me.

No. 12 was quite recently home to Barbecue Challenge 2005 (BBQC05). The challenge was that during Reading Week (the week between the end of class and the start of exams) for all the partcipants to have all meals – breakfast, lunch, and dinner – on the barbecue. It lasted from Monday until Friday, and I am happy to say that of the twelve who started out, I am one of three who managed to last all the way through. The others were Chris C. and George Irwin.

Anyhow, I have enjoyed plentiful good times at No. 12, more than I deserve. Home to Chris, Dave, Alex, Jenny, and ZaZa, it was always a comforting place when things were irritating me; a veritable home away from home. And because they have satellite television, there was always at least one program about Irwin Rommel on for us to watch whilst slowly sipping a cup of Earl Grey. From getting sunburnt in the garden while studying this term, to the time Cockburn the Younger was ill atop the herb garden, No. 12 has been a font of good times and fond memories, and long may it be so to its future residents. No. 12, I shall miss thee.

Woke up this morning with a slight timmerman (that’s Dansk/Sofie-speak for hangover), which was happily cured by a prodigious amount of orange juice and two sugar doughrings from Fisher and Donaldson’s on the way to my exam at 9:30am.

The jolly Dr. Frank Lorenz Muller invigilated the exam.

‘France Since 1940: Politics, Culture, and Society’

Three hours to answer three questions. I responded to:

After the exam I headed round to Maria Bramble’s for a glass of fizz with her and Robert O’Brien. She had just had her last exam and both are graduating this year, and getting married, as previously mentioned. Anyhow, we all of us headed to the Doll’s House restaurant to make use of their prudent lunch deal with “Ishmael”, Clare Dempsey, and Sam Ferguson, or ‘Father Sam’ as we call her because she’s studying to be a ‘piscie priestess.

It was a good luncheon with the usual good humour, except “Ishmael” and Rob continued their boring argument over something Paul says in Corinthians. There were a lot of good quips, none of which I can recall sadly.

There are so many great and wonderful people leaving this year; they will be greatly missed. I must thank Jocelyn my cook (God bless her!) for being instrumental in increasing the effectiveness of my general operations this academic year. She will be leaving — hoping she’ll be accepted to a position as nanny to a wealthy Turkish family somewhere in Anatolia – but don’t worry about my stomach. I am leaving the realm of private accomodation (good riddance!) and returning to a university hall of residence. Not just a hall of residence, but the best hall of them all: St. Salvator’s. Three square meals a day and a maid to empty your bin, vacuum your floors, and clean your desk surface. I think my room overlooks the Garden Quad rather than having a sea view, but that’s acceptable.

Now for a few days of packing, cleaning up the empty port bottles from my bedchamber, and then on Saturday back to the Empire State in all its glory. God bless America!

Last night was my very good friend Arabella Anderson-Braidwood’s twenty-first birthday celebration, unfortunately timed for the evening before my last exam of the year (9:30 this morning). In the spirit of self-sacrifice, I attended the soirée nonetheless, which, owing to Bella’s generosity, raised funds for the newest Maggie’s Cancer Caring Centre in London. (more…)

Today is the last Sunday of term, so after going to the 9:00 Mass and mulling around the tea-and-coffee afterwards I headed over to St. Salvator’s Chapel for the last chapel service of the academic year. Thankfully the final hymn was “Guide me, O thou great Redeemer” which is a classic. Most of the other hymns were good traditional tunes but with different lyrics to suit the touchy-feely Teddy Bear Christianity (if you can call it that) of the Church of Scotland today. But at least the last hymn of the year was a good, solid one. And I had Matt Normington at my right hand and Jenny Maxwell at my left, so I was amongst friends to boot.

Above are seen Sara Lawrence Goodwin (center) and the Rev. Dr. Ian C. Bradley (right), in my mortarboard which he nicked for the purposes of the photo. (more…)

The Bronxville Review-Press informs me that old Mrs. Garretson has passed away. When I worked at the bookshop in the village, I used to deliver the books she ordered to her apartment. I never made it past the large entrance hall, but that alone was literally covered in all sorts of polychromatic art; always very intriguing. Mrs. Garretson was always a very courteous lady, may she rest in peace.

His Eminence, Keith Patrick O’Brien, the Cardinal Archbishop of St Andrews & Edinburgh visited St Andrews today, and offered the holy sacrifice of the Mass in the ruins of the Cathedral. It was the first time the Cardinal was in St Andrews since receiving his honorary degree last June. Above are Canon Halloran, our parish priest and Catholic chaplain to the University, and His Eminence.

It was unusually cold today and the ruins of the Cathedral were windswept, but we held fast and stayed for the whole mass. (There were about fifty or so in attendance). His Eminence even gave the final blessing and dismissal in Latin, after which he lead us in facing east and chanting the Salve Regina. Then we were all off to the parish hall for some tea, coffee, and cake. (more…)

This morning after the 9:00am Mass we learned that Fr. Patrick Burke has been summoned to the Eternal City for a job at the Congregation of the Doctrine of the Faith. Fr. Burke, who was Convener of the University of St Andrews Union Debating Society (f. 1794) and President of the Catholic Society during his undergraduate days, is just about the best (diocesan) priest in Scotland.

Oft-described as a Rhodesian-born English priest of a Scottish diocese who’s spent more time in Italy than anywhere else and speaks German to boot, Fr. Burke has a massive following at his alma mater. He is currently a parish priest in Stirling and Bannockburn as well as editor of Faith magazine. We were all elated to hear of his appointment, though the precise details of it are unknown at the moment, though we are saddened that it means he will likely be unavailable for his popular, informative, and hilarious talks at Canmore anymore.

A brilliant academic with excellent pastoral skills as well; not a common combination. We wish him all the best.

This afternoon, Miss Breed and I were sitting in the Common Room at Canmore attempting to study for our Art and Piety exam on Tuesday and would you know, the young lady has never even heard of Sutton Place nor Beekman Place? Sometimes I think if she hadn’t gone to Brearley and then St Andrews she’d never’ve left Soho. And that would be a tragedy. What is this world coming to?

Meanwhile Mr. Brenner inquires as to why I stated my preference for Murray Hill among the neighborhoods of Manhattan. It is somewhat on the quieter side of things, it has one of the best parishes in the Archdiocese (the Church of Our Saviour) and is within walking distance of another (my beloved St. Agnes), is home to the Union League Club, the English-Speaking Union, and other institutions, and the general tendency of the architecture is fairly attractive. Why not?

Alright, there are plenty of desirable districts in Manhattan. Sutton Place/Beekman Place, Carnegie Hill, Yorkville, Riverside Drive, some parts of Greenwich Village, and up top Hudson Heights and the Fort Tryon Park area aren’t bad. Depending on the accomodation, I’d be happy to live in any of those areas; especially one of those wonderful nostalgic neo-Dutch buildings on the West Side, or something neo-Georgian on the East Side.

Anyhow, for the edification of Miss Breed, here are the B&TC on Sutton Place, and the City Review as well.

Today a few volunteers outside the library succesfully raised a fair amount of money for Glock Aid 2005. “What’s Glock Aid 2005?” you ask. Essentially, Chris C. (Alabama’s unwanted son) wants to buy a handgun (a Glock, to be precise) and to raise money for this endeavour he spent all morning cooking and then from midday until 4:00pm selling his baked goods outside the Main Library.

D. P., having made a donation, helps himself to some baked goods.

All sorts of people turned up and inquired about the cause. Some bought out of hunger, some bought out of desire for scrumptious brownies, and some gave from their hearts out of their desire to see Chris C. well-armed.

(more…)

Last night was spent in the Mess at Wyvern (HQ, A Sqd, TUOTC), which is one of the most delightful places in St Andrews. They have the cheapest pint in town, and even still it somehow seems you only need to drink half as much as usual to alter your consciousness.

If you are not a member of the Officer Training Corps, and I am not, then you have to be signed in by a member (2LT. Chris C. obliged) and introduced to the PMC, Tom Kerr, who lives a few floors above me and is an admirable man despite having gone to school with Dave Watt. Wyvern’s a beautiful house though, and adequately looked after by A Squadron of the Tayforth Universities Officer Training Corps.

Speaking of Mr. Watt, Dave had gone to Wine and Cheese that evening and showed up in the Mess pretty late, grievously attired in a black shirt with red stripes, accompanying tie, a white jumper, and with the obligatory blazer on top. He had hassled along some other OCDT (officer cadet) who had been at Wine and Cheese that evening to come along to the Mess. Now this chap was decked up in the more usual tweed jacket (and riding boots, without explanation) but was lacking in necktie. As one might expect, jacket and tie are de rigeur for the Mess, and once the said tie-less fellow showed up the lack of tie was noted and brought to the attention of the PMC.

Disgrace! What was to be done? A Mess Court would be convened, Tom Kerr presiding. The shameless and inebriated David Watt would provide the defense, the shameless and inebriated Chris C. the prosecution, and George Irwin, Euan Gorford, and I were appointed as jury.

Now, the poor lad in the dock, whom we shall call Oliver George Wilson, since, when asked to state his name for the court, he replied “Oll… Oll… Oliver George Wilson”. Well, the poor Oliver George Wilson could barely compose a coherent sentence, most likely due to the imbibing of wine at “Chine and Weese”, and seemed to posess very few of his own faculties and certainly even fewer of anyone else’s. Nonetheless the Prosecution opened the case charging Oliver George Wilson with entering the mess without a tie by effortlessly pointing to Oliver George Wilson sitting in the makeshift dock (actually a barstool) suffering from a complete lack of any form of neck attire bar
the collar of his shirt.

I began to have my suspicions as to the integrity of the court when I, a member of the jury, was called to testify on behalf of the prosecution. Now, the questions interrogated of me and the responses freely, and I dare say deftly, given are not for stating in the public realm. Nonetheless they were of a such a nature as to make the padre blush (or so Gorford told me when I left the stand and returned to the jury), and the denizens of the Mess were rollicking, so in my humble opinion it’s all for the better.

The defense was then given the opportunity to state their case, which was lacking. [Note to self: if in trouble, never call on Dave Watt to act as my defense]. Mr. Watt threw out some rambling, barely grammatical sentences in a highly dramatic style which he no doubt hoped would distract the jury from the matter at hand. It was to no effect, as the jury of three — and a fine jury it was, mind you, one of the best juries in the land — as I was saying, the jury of George, Euan, and I were pretty much convinced by the defense’s argument and my own stand in the witness box and thus Oll… Oll… Oliver George Wilson was convicted on all charges. Lord Chief Justice Kerr sentenced the delinquent to an “H.M.S. Wyvern” which involves drinking lots of gin and being turned around incessentantly, this processes being repeated four times in some vaguely nautical fashion while singing, not their own A Squadron ditty, but instead the B Squadron (Dundee University) song, to the tune ‘Cwm Rhondda’ aka Guide Me O Thou Great Redeemer:

Dundee, frightful. Oliver George Wilson didn’t even chunder (at least not in the faux German helmet in the Mess designated for such a purpose), and thus a good time was had by all.

Today I:

1. Practically wrote an entire essay in one day and handed it in and I think it was pretty good. I know, that’s nothing special, but I’ve never done it before, and it took up the preponderance of the day.
2. Went to a celebratory birthday brunch for Maria.
3. Participated in the Second Annual Bumblebee Hunt held under the auspices of the St Andrews branch of the Sons of Confederate Veterans. The winning bumblebee was a big one, which was christened Algernon Deathbee. He will be tied to a string which will be tacked to a table at the Officer Training Corps Ball tonight. (I am not attending).
4. Managed to fit in a walk on the beach with Lizzy and Nicholas.

Next on the agenda… get a bit of research done for the next essay, then out for dinner and drinks at the Jigger for Maria’s birthday, then hopefully get started on the speech I have to give at a dinner tommorrow night.

The Charity Polo is tommorrow, and it looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day, but I’m not sure if I’ll go. Vichy France looms on the horizon, and I’ve got the hush-hush dinner in the evening to boot.

Oh fiddlesticks, I’ve forgotten to return these short loan books. Got to run.

Deo gratias! The white smoke came billowing forth from the Sistine Chapel, the bells rung out the election of a new pope, and a number of us made our way to Canmore to watch our new pontiff be announced to Rome and the world. The tension, the excitement, the hope! Would it be Ratzinger? Surely not! We should be so lucky. Oh please, let it be Ratzinger! The waiting. The BBC commentators who are completely alien to the church blabbing on. Let us see him! Who will it be? There’s no way it could be Ratzinger: that would be too good to be true! Wait, here comes the announcement. All of us jumped out of our seats and grabbed hold of one another. The cardinal begins his announcement…

“Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger.”

A wave of jubliation swept over us. We were dreaming? Could it possibly be true? We cheered, we cried, we laughed, we hugged eachother, kissed, shook hands. Deo gratias! Our prayers have been answered. All of us are full of immense hope for the years to come. This is what John Paul II spent his pontificate preparing for. And some amongst us will be going to World Youth Day. A German pope in a German city for World Youth Day! Imagine that! It’s still somewhat hard to believe. I’ve been coughing and sniffling like mad since I’ve got a cold, but no worries. We will always remember this day. And there shall be much rejoicing and imbibing tonight.

Now begins the arduous task of rebuilding the Church. We have had a prophet to inspire us, now we will have a king to lead us. In the world, not of it. Eternity, not modernity! Onwards and upwards. With the grace of God.

Long live Benedict XVI!

Once again it is Procession Day here in St Andrews, when we have the annual Kate Kennedy Procession to harken the return of springtime. Unfortunately, like last year, it was on the cold side and rather grey, despite some truly beautiful days previously.

For those of you who don’t know it, the Kate Kennedy procession is a medieval rite of spring which was resurrected in the past century. Kate Kennedy, according to lore, was the niece of Bishop James Kennedy, the founder of St. Salvator’s College. Owing to her beauty, a procession was held in spring in her honor, according to lore. Eventually, these became pretty rowdy, and as such were banned in the 19th century. In the 1920’s, Donald Kennedy, an indirect descendant of Bishop Kennedy himself, decided the resurrect the procession and founded the Kate Kennedy Club for this distinct purpose.

The Club admits nine new members each year from the bejant (first year) class. One of these is selected to portray the comely Kate Kennedy in the Procession, and is joined by the eight other bejants as sheild-bearers, and other students, members, and friends of the University who dress up as important figures from the history of town and gown. (more…)

No one quite knows how often the Gifford Lectures are. Some people say they’re every three years. I thought they were every year, and they are spread amongst the four ancients of Scotland (St Andrews, Aberdeen, Glasgow, Edinburgh). But we hosted them in my first year and already have them again. And our own Professor John Haldane (alledgedly the only theist in the School of Philosophy) is concurrently giving the Gifford Lectures at Aberdeen, supposedly. Go figure.

Anyhow, on Tuesday commenced the ambigu-annual (ambiguennale, I am told, is the word the Italians use) Gifford Lectures here at St Andrews, by none other than the most-eminent Professor Alvin Plantinga of the University of Notre Dame. Unfortunately, I had to miss this one, as I had work to do. The title was ‘Evolution and Design’ and it basically demonstrated that there is no conflict between evolution (even Darwinian concepts of evolution) and the idea of design by the Creator as advocated by Christians.

Wednesday, I attended a lecture by Irving Lavin of Princeton University entitled ‘The Story of O from Giotto to Einstein’. It tracked the fascinating tale of Giotto’s ‘O’ from the perhaps aprocryphal tale all the way to an etching of Einstein, via calligraphy, Rembrandt, Jasper Johns, and others. Difficult to quite explain it, but most enlightening. Also, it was about an hour and a half but felt more like forty-five minutes.

Yesterday, I did attend, and Platinga demonstrated in his second Gifford Lecture that there is a conflict between the naturalist/materialist idea that the universe is a closed system because there is no demonstratable evidence of such, nor is it even observable. Thus science cannot really have anything to do with the idea of the closed universe, and it is left to metaphysics. So all the silly liberal posturing about the ridiculousness of miracles is, in effect, ridiculous itself, and most unscientific.

Thankfully, Professor Plantinga is a very good lecture, balancing clarity, thoroughness, joviality, and asides quite adroitly. The next is on Tuesday: ‘Evolutionary Psychology and Scripture Scholarship: more alike than you think’.

Tonight, I’m off to the theatre to see the late Arthur Miller’s ‘The Creation of the World and Other Business’. Apparently some sort of retelling of the Genesis narrative. A fellow son of the Empire State, second-year John MacDonald, is among the cast of this production. We look forward to it.

ORDER OF SERVICE

Entrance (silence)

(The officiant then organises the various sections of newspaper into the order in which they shall be read. Frivolities, such as ‘Gardening’, ‘Motoring’, and ‘Money & Business’, are discarded.)

First Reading: The Daily Telegraph, first section

Second Reading: The Financial Times, first section

First Glance: The Daily Telegraph, Weekend section (Rarely anything worth reading inside, but tradition requires at least a glance)

Third Reading: The Daily Telegraph, Property section

Nourishment: A sugar doughring from Fisher & Donaldson’s (Members of all newspaper-reading denominations are invited to partake, but are encouraged to abide by the rules of their respective communities)

Fourth Reading: The Financial Times, Weekend section (The best weekend section there is. Short and varied.)

Second Glance: The Daily Telegraph, Travel section (Ditto notes on Telegraph Weekend section)

Fifth Reading: FT Magazine

Final flip through the pages: (ruffle, ruffle, ruffle)

Exit. (The assembled then disperse and carry on with their day).

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