...has at last hit the Oxford Trinity Term. Pam and I went to the Varsity Match in the Parks to see the University beat Cambridge in the 20/20. The trees were in their full glory, the Pimms tasted wonderful, there were some soaring sixes and some beautiful wickets. "The Sultan" led the University; goodness me, what would English and Oxford Cricket be if it weren't for the Honourable East India Company? The bumping races on the River ... a fortnight ago ... have been deftly infiltrated by the daughters of the New England plutocracy, delightful ever in the clarity of their diction; Cricket, on the other hand, seems impervious to the dollar. Vivat Imperium Britannicum.
And, it being high summer, I am wearing our best white chasuble and set. It is falling apart, but ... well, what is the point of just leaving it in some dark drawer? French eighteenth century; the crosses on stole and maniple just like the Cross of the Saint Esprit; flowers hand-emboidered on white silk; light as a feather. I once made a self-denying ordinance to wear it only four times a year, but I have broken that, and this year have the set out of the chest for the period between our Lady Mediatrix of All Graces and the Sacred Heart. How I wish it could tell its tale; of the artists who created it; of the priests who used it; of the people in whose churches it was worn.
Quorum animabus propitietur Cor Sacratissimum Iesu.