This week we buried another Presbyterian, a retired minister who knew all the words to the Hippopotamus Song. He saw his death coming and accepted it like all things, the working of a sovereign god who works such things for good. Now he is currently dead, and I don’t expect to see him again in this lifetime.

Let Time be still/ Who takes all things/ Face, feature, memory/ Under his blinding wings. James K. Baxter.

My move into a new house presses ahead. A friend helped me move a gazillion books. I exaggerate, it was about 500. Without moving any furniture it’s beginning to look good. Since it’s a long weekend I hope to move some furniture from downstairs: the rest of my bookshelves, a two-seater sofa, a comfortable chair, and a cane table with glass top and chairs; and on top of that, some drawers from the garage. I hope the cold front coming through doesn’t fraught my ambitions.

I’ve never organised a house warming before. I wonder what to do? I know that house has some theologies to exorcise. At least one reader will understand what I mean when I say Rev. Blobby lived there before me.

It’s nearly the end of June, and I haven’t gone into the University Bookshop to pick up my new calendar for Matariki. The new calendar will begin on Monday.

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