Comments

 I still can't reply to comments on this blog. Sigh. 

This has happened to me before, actually. In the sidebar here is a link to Beth's blog (BLT in MT). I couldn't comment on her blog for about a decade, and as mysteriously as the possibility of doing so raised, now it has come back. Same with San's blog (Multicoloured Madness); years went by where I couldn't comment on her blog and then suddenly one day recently I could. And now I can't comment on my own blog.

It tries one's patience, it really does. These modern marvels sent o revolutionise our world — well, they do, but I've come to the conclusion they disable and limit as much as they facilitate and extend.  Back in the 1970s I would ever have known you unless we had physically met (or I had somehow heard of you and been given your address) and we would have stayed in contact by letter. And we all depended on letters so there was an evening post as well as a morning post. And there were no Zoom calls and there was no YouTube and no electronic games, so we came out of our houses and drank tea with our neighbours and there was still Evensong at every church and doesn't it all seem a long time ago.

But now things come and they vanish, out of our control and beyond our understanding, governed by a mad world of robots beyond our control. And now, I write here, and you have the kindness to come and read what I have written, and comment on it, and I can't even reply to you, and I am angry about that. I have asked the robots what to do ad they have advice about how to tinker with the settings of my blog and of my computer and their bright ideas have not worked.

I'll put my mind to it, but this is a time of endings and conclusions, so maybe after all these years it's time to start again elsewhere. If I do, I'll leave a post to let you know.

In the meantime, there were two comments I wanted to leave. I tried repeatedly and could not. So if one fine day you come along here and read the comment section and what I'm going to say appears there about thirty times, that'll be why.

On my post about modesty, Lynda left a comment. Because I'd said I looked at her photo on her own blog, and moved it to my desk top so I could enlarge it and look at her clothes properly, she said this:  

Oh dear, I'll have to be careful what photos I post of myself if people are going to enlarge them!! :))

And she described her own clothes, and then she said:

I really must do a blog post about it...

And I wanted to say — I would love to read that blog post! Please do it. And then I also wanted to say that every time a person leaves the house or opens the front door to someone, it's an enlarged 3D photo of their self, so no need to worry. 

Waving to you, Lynda. xx

Then just today Krista left a comment on the post I wrote called "Parameters for perimeters", in which she wrote about her wonderful green light that shines through the night and gives reassurance and a sense of presence to her neighbours. 

And I wanted to say — Krista, I think I can see your light shining all the way across the world; thank you for holding it steady.

And to all of you, my friends, thank you for being here and for reading my thoughts and sharing your own. It's such a cheerful thing.

So for the time being I'll wait to see if the comment facility comes back, and in the meanwhile I'll reply to your comments like this. 

If you really want to be sure to stay in touch, remember that you can send me your email address in a comment. All comments come to me to read, I manually and personally publish them, it's not automated. At least something isn't done by robots, thank God. So if you leave a comment with your email address, I will delete the comment and get in touch with you by email, so you can correspond with me as much as you wish. Then we can also exchange street addresses and write to each other in the old-fashioned way on paper, if the fancy takes us — though it's become breathtakingly expensive to send a letter now.

And if all else fails and the possibility of commenting doesn't return to me like a homing pigeon, I'll strike camp here and move to somewhere that works.