"Mainly down to the civilising influence of beer."

More likely a near-universal belief among the local population that:

- emotional incontinence is unEnglish, and practised only by silly girlies (of all ages and sexes) attending self-assertion workshops

- unsolicited familiarity with strangers is a ridiculous fad that probably suits those professional beggars America's restaurant industry employs instead of real waiters. But best kept at a good 3,000 miles' distance. Stokebailey will have noticed, for example, the complete - and highly laudable - absence of pointless community activities at St Etheldreda's, where the celebrant invariably acknowledges his departing flock with little more than a sheepish (or do I mean collie-esque?) grunt.

- what anyone else is doing, saying or wearing is up to them and no-one else. Looking a complete prat is a fundamental human right.

They did shake hands to greet one other, strangers included, at St. E's. But not at the pubs of course.

collie-esque: good one.

>>collie-esque<<

He means tongue out, panting and running around trying to herd everyone...

"They did shake hands to greet one other"

Only because they'd been ordered to.

The bloke say 'offerte vobis pacem': you shake hands. You don't talk to them or anything.

Ooops. I might have thrown in a Hello, or smiled and nodded, or something.

>>running around trying to herd everyone...<<
and yet sometimes a few manage to stray.

The bloke say 'offerte vobis pacem': you shake hands.>>

I don't. I hate it. When did we start doing this. We didn't do it when I first went to church.

For the love of God I have seen people kissing one another in the style of johnny French.

It's not British.

During the Lords Prayer in some churches here, you are expected to hold hands with the person next to you. Even though it was my mother who took one of my hands recently, I disliked it; I couldn't fold my arms and had to submit to the stranger on the other side.

New Age-y vibrations-y kind of thing? If it makes some people irritated, not even counting the germphobes, is it worth it?

I learned to play guitar by playing in church. I can, to this day, play Kumbaya and Lord of the Dance. But I don't.

That was Satan's work. I wanted to be Buddy Holly (my favourite ever ever) but he made me play Black Sabbath.

One advantage of having a guitar in your hand is that you don't have to go through this "sign of peace" fandango.

Usually the person next to me is an 80 year old lady. What harm could she do me? And I am by nature pacific toward old ladies. So why? Why oh why?

"And I am by nature pacific toward old ladies. So why? Why oh why?"

Because the liturgy prescribes it (and did in the days of the Early Church). And we're British, so we follow tradition. But Pape, so we don't hold hands, kiss, embrace or anything else (though I do give Mrs F a quick peck at Xmas Eve Midnight Mass).

The otherwise totally sane Prod church next door has them all holding their hands out during the Lord's Prayer. Which would have had Tyndale et al emailing the Whore of Babylon, telling him it was all a terrible mistake, they'd seen the error of their ways and were there any good indulgence franchises still up for grabs in the SW1 postcode?

We don't do that. Just say 'Peace be with you" to our neighbour after the Pax Vobiscum. Or, at HQ if the Fuhrer's doing it in Latin, say 'Pax Tecum'.

What's wrong with that?

It reeks of hippy nonsense.

I basically put quiche, brown bread, soup for lunch, guitars, and bearded vicars in the same basket.

Which I would throw into Mordor's furnace.

CW - occasionally has difficulties teling the Bible from Lord of the Rings.

Years ago, when we were still regular church goers, my husband started passing me small gifts -- like a peace button or a sugar packet with Richard Nixon's picture on it -- at the sign of peace. I finally put a stop to it on a Sunday that happened to be also St. Patrick's Day, when I whipped out the quart jug of Tullamore Dew I'd stashed in my oversized purse and refused to take it back.

That might be my mum who keeps trying to sit next to you, Cholm.

Tell her to stop.

I'm not violent towards old biddies, but there are limits.

TEARING OURSELVES AWAY FROM THE METROPOLIS

Speaker’s Corner these days consists mostly of Bible Thumping in various accents, sometimes mere Bible Reading. One American wore a cowboy hat and attracted a fair-sized crowd with his Southern version of Good News. Hyde Park on a lovely day must be an attractive alternative to churches for many, and you could certainly do worse. The only other lecture topics offered were from two men eager to tell us about the Big Bang or Zoroastrianism.

My favorite was a group of students offering passersby a look at the sun through their filtered telescope. You saw a red disc against black, and solar flares at the margins. Their enthusiasm and generosity were very sweet, and they assured us that it was quite safe.

MC wandered off to watch a football game and I rented a chair to write postcards. The ample time we had appointed to head back towards St.Pancras came and went as we lingered, enjoying the park scene, the fresh air, the sunshine. Then it began to seem, well, late, and we roused ourselves to push on.

Victoria Line was closed on weekends for maintenance when we were there. We changed between lines, power walked to the hotel from Warren St. tube stop, got our bags from the concierge, and hailed our only taxi of the trip. (MC later said the driver seemed to be going at a snail’s pace.)

We might have made the train by a whisker if I’d had the ticket Booking Number from my confirmation email. I had assumed that train ticket machines would be similar to those at airports where you insert a credit card and your itineraries magically appear. Wrongly assumed, it turned out; no number, no ticket. The next train was two hours later, amazingly soon by Midwest American standards.

MC stayed with our luggage and I ventured into the King’s Cross area for an internet café, got the crucial numbers, and returned to satisfy the ticket machine. Meanwhile, MC learned that St.Pancras was the only place she’d stumbled upon where she could pick up free WiFi and use her IPod Touch for email. I was just as glad to have seen rumpled and seedy King’s Cross area for myself: as others have noted, it’s typical of areas around big city train stations and not your first choice for genteel lodging.

I called our B&B host, who was to have picked us up at the Chesterfield station and driven us the 13 miles to Bakewell, and we negotiated a new time. The new station is a pleasant place to while away an extra hour, and soon we were safely aboard our train.

Shhh...don't tell everyone how lovely the Peak District is, or they'll all want to visit! :-D

Lee Ann

Thanks, Lee Ann.

I'm still considering how to go about that, based on an earlier pledge. With luck, and maybe also by droning on about my personal train missings and such, I'll have lost everyone by that time.

Nope, you manage to make even train missings interesting. We'll follow you to the end, enjoying every minute.

Thank you, dear.

Shhh...don't tell everyone how lovely the Peak District is, or they'll all want to visit!>>>>

Testify sister! Testify!

(honestly - it is jaw droppingly beautiful and is my favourite part of the country).