life

Highs and Lows with Meg

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Meg’s Diary 6/3/2025

We returned from a 2 week holiday and collected a happy Meg from the kennels. She is always happy. The kennel staff obviously know her well, and talked about how she insists on carrying the biggest log whenever she’s out, and that she’s very bouncy so they don’t allow the pregnant kennel worker anywhere near her! They told us she is still aggressive towards other dogs when walking on the lead (though not when in the kennel). I haven’t seen this, so not sure what to do. They said it happens when other dogs approach her and aren’t recalled by their owners. I guess as she is on the lead, it’s the responsibility of the other dog owners to recall their dogs. But it’s a shame. I have noticed that when we’re in the car, Meg no longer barks at every dog we pass. I hope this continues. She must have got used to seeing other dogs when in her kennel, so hopefully they have become ‘normal’ in her world.

Before we collected Meg, I felt a bit depressed—I wasn’t sure that I wanted her back, life is so much easier without her. I never felt like this with our other dogs. When she first came home, Meg pretty much ignored me, and was much more excited about going into the garden to greet the gardener than greeting me. This was a low point in our relationship. Later, we had a lovely walk together and I realised that actually, I am very fond of her, but it’s easy to forget that. I hand-fed her for a couple of days to encourage her to bond with me again. But if I am honest, unlike Kia (my ‘velcro-GSD’) Meg would be completely happy whoever she lived with. If I was ill and needed to rehome her, I would have no worries about her settling in, she would forget me as soon as she left the driveway! Perhaps this is what makes working GSD so suitable for police and army work—they focus on the task and are less attached to a single owner. Meg does follow me round the house, but only because there is not a better option. She is good company unless someone/thing is more exciting, and then she leaves me without a backward glance. I find this difficult. Though it does mean I don’t feel guilty putting her into kennels. (I also wouldn’t worry if she was stolen.)

We collected cat-with-snapped-tendon from Son. She was happy there, and did not want to come home. She now has the utility room, so no longer caged, and Meg is not supposed to go in there. Of course, Meg is not keen on this rule. She came in with me today, when I used the washing machine. The cat was on top of her cage, Meg put up her nose, Milly slapped her, repeatedly. I stroked Meg, praised her for being calm, moved her away before she lost all control and bounced on the cat. It’s such a shame they aren’t friends. They would both enjoy the company.

The weather is sunny. This makes life easier as there are less muddy footprints on my kitchen floor. But it means I worry about leaving Meg in the car for too long, so when I go out she needs to be in her cage at home. Although she seems very happy in her cage, I don’t like putting her in there. When I’m home, she is free in the house all the time now, unless her feet are muddy. So far she hasn’t destroyed anything. Mostly she sleeps in whichever room I am working in.

We were having some shrubs planted, and Husband needed to put sticks in the ground so the gardeners knew where to plant them. There was no way we could let Meg witness this—she would have gone back and collected the sticks, and then when the shrubs were planted she would associate them with sticks and go and collect them too. We put her in the hall, where she couldn’t see what was happening. So far, the shrubs have survived.

I like throwing sticks for Meg, but there’s always a danger that she’ll try to grab them when I pick them up (and would break my fingers, she is so strong). Therefore, she is meant to ‘wait’ when I stoop to pick up a stick. Sometimes she grabs them anyway, and then I stand, and wait for her to drop it before I will throw it. Meg understands this, and stands close, looking at me, determined to not release the stick, waiting for me to continue the game with a different stick. I always refuse, it feels important to never let Meg win when we have a stand-off. (This is probably why she prefers everyone else in the world to me—I am the only one who insists she obeys!) This week Meg kept grabbing at sticks (I’m guessing because no one stops her when she’s in kennels) and our walk was very slow—lots of standing, not looking at her, waiting for her to release the stick. She is very determined, and will stand for long minutes, refusing to obey. But I am more determined. One day, I hope she will simply obey—it will make life easier.

One afternoon was perfect. We walked in the woods, I threw sticks, Meg charged backwards and forwards chasing sticks (picture a torpedo, taking down anything that stands in the way). She came when I called and walked next to me on the lead, along the edge of the road but ignoring the cars. We drove into town, and I walked to pay the friend who feeds the poultry when I’m away. Meg carried a stick, and walked next to me, through the station car park, up some steps, along the main road (for 1 minute) and although she was on full-alert she did not chase the cars that passed us. Then we went to Mum’s, and she slept in the back of the car. Then played with a ball while I cooked dinner. In the evening she lay watching telly with us, chewing her chew. Such a lovely dog. Perfectly behaved.

I hope you have something perfect this week too. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

anneethompson.com
*****

What is Moral?

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‘Humans are different to animals because we have morals.’ But is this true? Is it true that animals do not have moral capacity? Do they act purely on instinct? This is a question I continue to wrestle with, but as ever with academic research, the journey itself has been fascinating.

This week, I decided to read what Kant wrote. Immanuel Kant was a philosopher who lived in Prussia in the 1700s. People still quote him today, which is a sign that someone’s work was significant (even at my most optimistic, I do not dream that anyone will be reading my work in 2325). He wrote a couple of books about the metaphysics of morals. I decided that before I could answer my questions about animals, I needed to define what I meant by ‘moral’ and ‘moral behaviour’. As this is not something I have considered before, I hoped Kant would help.

The problem was, I did not understand what I was reading — even his titles needed deciphering. I was reading a translation, with a commentary, but even the commentary was impossible! Now, this is not a rare occurrence when I read academic books. Some academics, especially those who are not also teachers, tend to use language that usually only appears in a dictionary. Kant has the added bonus of writing sentences that never seem to end. Reading very long sentences, full of unfamiliar words, makes for difficult reading. But never fear, I have a tactic.

Reading something difficult can be stressful, because we feel stupid. My tactic is to read it aloud, in my ‘telling a story to 5-year-olds’ voice, while recording it on my phone. I do not attempt to understand it (you don’t need to understand something to read it aloud, it’s like handwriting practise). I use accents for the quotes, different voices for certain phrases, lots of expression and a generally calm slow voice.

Then, when I am relaxed, perhaps on a train or baking a cake, I listen to the recording. The words are now in my own speech pattern, nothing is scary, I can listen properly, concentrating on the meaning. Now, Kant is still complicated, I still needed to pause the recording to check words in dictionaries or make notes. But by removing the stress, I can tackle the content. The recording isn’t perfect. I attempted a Prussian accent when reading direct quotes, and then giggled because it was so bad. Meg was with me, and did not appreciate Kant, so there are long groans from the dog, and at one point she came and panted into the mic and then licked the book, which sounds very weird. But I still found it helpful, and understood enough to give you a summary:

Kant was considering what makes good actions good. He described someone risking his life to save another person. He noted that even if they didn’t succeed in the rescue, or even if the person died in the attempt, we would still say their action was good. However, this is only good if their motive is good. If they were offered lots of money for the rescue, and especially if they believed there was no risk to themselves, then we would be less sure that their action was good. The motive matters. Kant decided that only motives of pure duty, with no other motives, means an action is moral. He said this motive (which he calls a maxim) should be as strong as a law. Other motives, like a reward, or because we like/want to do something, should not be a factor in how we decide to behave, as only an action based purely on duty an be called moral.

Now, I am not sure that I agree with him. I understand that reward muddles our motive (though I am not convinced it makes an action less moral) but I think that acting due to gratitude can also be moral. The idea of ‘not repaying good with evil’ is also, I think, a sign of morality. If someone helps me, and I therefore want to help them in response, I think this can still be moral. This is sort of the ethic of Christianity: God has loved me and that makes me want to be good— not because of what I will receive, but because of what I have already received. I think this is different to what Kant says — but I will continue listen to my Prussian accent while the dog groans a few more times, just in case I have misunderstood. I also need to decide how this applies to animals (the morality, not the groaning). Do animals behave in response to gratitude, and can this be called moral? More thought needed before I answer that one.

I hope you find ways to overcome difficulties this week. Thanks for reading.

Take care.

Love, Anne x

anneethompson.com

No Smiley Faces for PhD Students

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As you will know if you are a regular reader of my blog, in June I was in Edinburgh for my annual assessment. This was rather scary. In the weeks beforehand, I completed an online form, and submitted a writing sample. I also sent an updated proposal. (A proposal is a document that describes what you want to research, and your method, and what literature already exists and how your work will be different.) In return, I was told where and when I would be assessed. As I said, all very scary.

On the day of my assessment I visited the washroom 376 times, and arrived at the room much too early. I was told to wait outside, while the panel of academics discussed their strategy. I worried I might need the washroom again. Or faint. Managed to not do either.

I was called into the room, introduced to the person on the panel who I didn’t know, and offered a choice of seats. I chose a low sofa, then instantly regretted it—it felt like the ‘naughty seat’ at school.

The panel consisted of three lecturers at the university, one of whom was my primary supervisor. They explained that my supervisor would say very little, as she already knew about my research, the questions all came from the other two. I was expecting questions about the writing that I had submitted, and I was ready to discuss what I had learnt, and the shape of my project to date, and some of the views of other scholars. I was wrong. They asked nothing about this.

Instead, they asked about where my research fitted into the academic world—which area did I feel it was addressing? Was it philosophy, theology, biblical studies, psychology? They noted that I had quoted scholars from all those fields, and appeared to be addressing many different disciplines. They asked which scholar, of the many I have read, did I most want to be like?—They then argued with my choice (which felt a little unfair). It was a very intense interview, and I felt very unprepared. Gradually, I worked out what they were saying—they felt my work was too broad, it covers too many disciplines, and will not go ‘deep enough’ if I continue on this trajectory. I need to narrow my research, focus on a single discipline and do it well.

I did not cry (though it was close). I tried to listen. I realised that what they were saying was correct, and they were trying to help me succeed. But to be honest, I have worked very hard this year, and what I really wanted was a sticker with a smiley face on it. I think perhaps universities don’t have those.

In some ways, the outcome of the review is a relief. I have been aware that I have been dipping into various disciplines (and it has been tremendous fun!) I have known, in the back of my mind, that trying to pull all my research into a single thesis would be a challenge, but I had decided I would worry about that nearer the time, assuming that it would become clear which areas I should ignore and which ones I should focus on. It will be easier to only focus on one area (biblical studies—because I really enjoy the Hebrew, and how it communicates meaning).

As I am a part-time student, I didn’t have to ‘pass’ this review (probably just as well!) That delight happens next summer. I spent time with my supervisor, and we planned a strategy for the next year, ways to improve my proposal and focus my research.

The rest of the week was spent attending seminars, and chatting to other students. Everyone who I spoke to had a similar experience in the review—no one received a smiley face. My supervisor explained that the first year of a PhD is all about exploring the field, deciding which area to concentrate on—and I hadn’t done anything ‘wrong’ but now it was time to focus.  Several students had decided to change direction completely, and were now doing research in a different field. Mine has stayed basically the same—but with fewer dips into other interesting areas.

I was thinking about all this on the train ride home. It was not a fun activity, but perhaps honestly reviewing our performance, reassessing where we are heading, is often uncomfortable. It’s something we often ignore in ‘real life’ but I wonder if perhaps we ought to do it more often. What exactly do we want to be, and are we achieving it? I thought about some of the people who I had met—the extremely intelligent ones, the high-achievers, the academically gifted, the leaders. I don’t think I fit into any of those categories. I think I want to be the ‘safe’ one, the person who people feel comfortable with, the welcoming one. If I also end up with a PhD at the end of it all, that will be excellent.

I hope you achieve your aims this week. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

I will leave you with some photos of beautiful Edinburgh.

Exhausted Anne!

Assisted Dying Debate

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When I started my PhD research, I contacted my MP, asking whether I would be able to attend any Parliamentary debates on assisted dying. I heard nothing for months, and assumed my email was lost. However, earlier this week I received a reply, inviting me to the debate on Friday in the House of Commons. This was very exciting! I took Husband (I was allowed a guest) and we caught an early train to London.

At the House of Commons, we waited at the Cromwell Green entrance, as instructed and waited to pass through security. There was woman with placards on the green opposite, and as I watched she was joined by several other people, some carrying signs with Bible verses written on them. Later, there were also people in pink tee-shirts, asking for the right to have dignity. I am guessing they were on opposite sides of the debate (though actually, each slogan could have been used in both support or opposition to the Bill). The issues are complex. I wondered if their being there could achieve anything.

After passing through security (like at an airport, but more thorough as they individually checked each person) we walked through the cathedral-like Westminster Hall, along St. Stephens Hall, to the central lobby. The admissions office is behind a statue of Gladstone. I gave our names, and we were asked a couple of questions and then issued with our tickets and told where to wait. Our tickets gave us access to to the Speaker’s Gallery, which guaranteed seats (I think anyone can turn up to watch a debate, but will be in the pubic gallery, and may not get a seat). We had to wait in the central lobby until the Speaker arrived, and luckily there were comfy seats for older ladies (but no coffee, for older men, which was bit of an issue as I had been anxious to arrive on time and therefore we had not gone to a Pret on the way).

There was shout in a corridor, answered by a shout from one of the policemen who had also entered the lobby. Then he shouted ‘Hats off!’ and everyone wearing a hat/helmet tucked them under their arms, and round the corner came a little procession, of police and the Serjeant-of-Arms carrying the mace (a long silver club that dates back to the time of Charles II) and the Speaker. They strode round the lobby, passed the line of waiting people and police, and swept into the House of Commons. We followed them, and were directed up steps, to a small room where we had to leave all our bags and phones and coats (though I was allowed to keep my notebook and pen) and then we were ushered to seats, in a gallery, right opposite the Speaker’s chair.

The Speaker was talking about the India airplane crash that had happened overnight (but not the Israel attack on Iran, which also happened overnight–maybe we missed that) and then he turned to the business of the day: the Public Health Bill on assisted dying. MPs had submitted questions in advance, and the Speaker said there were too many, and had therefore chosen in advance who would speak, and he suggested a time-limit of 6 minutes. I was interested by the amount of power the Speaker had here–obviously the people chosen to speak would potentially influence the outcome of the debate, and it would be easy to be biased. (He would, I assume, choose from both sides of the debate, but he could pick those Mps who speak well or those MPs who did not. Definitely some of the MPs we heard spoke better than others.)

Image taken from learning.parliament.uk
It does not show the mics hanging from the ceiling, nor the screens. I was not allowed to take photographs.

The debate was about amendments to the Bill (which was read a few months ago). Kim Leadbeater spoke first, reading out the amendment, giving way to certain questions with a, ‘I give way to…’ (I’m not sure whether these were agreed in advance) and ignoring others with a ‘No, I will progress…’ The main thing I noticed was that to be an MP you need to speak very fast. There were screens, showing what was being debated, the name of the person speaking, and the time. The Speaker kept order, telling people if they spoke too long, or if their speech was irrelevant to the debate on the amendment (some seemed to be giving their view on the Bill, which has already been debated). Some MPs were clearly intelligent, thoughtful people who spoke well. Others less so.

The issues are too complex to include in a single blog post. The debate covered things like whether advertisers would be allowed to influence which medication was used, whether ethnicity should be considered in the debate, whether vulnerable people are protected by the law, whether it would be considered a ‘natural death’ or should an autopsy follow an assisted death, how to prevent permissive legislation in the future, what ‘error rate’ is acceptable?

The overall impression was of a well-ordered discussion, but with not enough time for everyone to be heard. It was also fast, moving from one speaker to the next, no time to pause, to consider the points raised, to ask supplementary questions. My understanding is that everything is written down, and I assume that afterwards, MPs can ask to see the transcript, and can consider the points carefully, deciding what they think. I wonder how many do; I wonder whether they have the time or if they then rush off to deal with other issues, no time to reflect. Which means that we, as normal people, have a responsibility to make our own views known, so our MP can represent us—or at least be aware that our viewpoint exists. Maybe those people waiting outside with placards were not futile, perhaps simply seeing them would ensure the Ministers were aware of their opinions.

My own opinion about assisted dying changes as I consider different issues. The one thing I am sure of, is that it is a very complex issue. It is not as simple as saying: ‘I would not allow my beloved pet to suffer in death, so we should not refuse to euthanise people.’ Nor as simple as: ‘We are created in the image of God, only God can decide life and death of a human.’ It is a big issue, and one which I think should be clarified in law—but also one which we all, as individuals in society, need to consider.

I hope you have an interesting day. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Nearly Naked

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Quick Trip to Cambridge

The wedding banns of our son were being read in Cambridge, which is very exciting! As a sort-of-Baptist (I attend an Anglican church but was raised a Baptist) I am a little fuzzy on some of the rituals/laws surrounding the Anglican Church. Apparently, if you marry in one of their churches, it is a legal requirement for banns to be read in advance (just in case someone wants to object to the marriage). They are read in the Parish of the ceremony, and in a church where you live (if that is different). Son lives in Cambridge. Lovely Daughter and SiL agreed to take mad dog for the weekend, so off we went.

Cambridge is always lovely (other than Fresher’s Week, when there is a lot of vomit). I love the history of the buildings, the river full of people having fun, the cows loose on the common. (Honestly, who couldn’t love a city that has cows wandering around?)

We had drinks on Saturday at The Pickering Inn. This was one of those ancient buildings blended with contemporary life that is commonplace in Cambridge. We sat under a ceiling built in the 1600’s, reading about ghosts, while the huge television showed the FA Cup Final. They had used old books to show reservations, and I started to read mine (because I don’t much enjoy football). A lovely way to spend an afternoon. Then we wandered back out into the sunshine, walked round the corner to an Italian restaurant, and I decided to forget about my low-cholesterol diet for an evening, so had a wonderful meal.

The following morning was church. We found the right church, and lots of friendly people came to ask who we were and welcomed us to the service. The church was quite full, and had a mix of ages, and the vicar had the same name as Husband. All was going well. There was a band, and the singing was good, and then they read the banns. I hadn’t realised that they would read out the full names, and they asked if anyone had a reason to object to the wedding (no one did) and then they prayed for the couple, and I felt unexpectedly emotional because it all felt very significant. Very serious. Very right.

The service continued to the usual formula of songs and readings and notices, and then there was a sermon. The sermon was about the woman who washed Jesus’ feet with her hair, which was a pretty outrageous thing to do in those days, and not at all what people were expecting. Then, from the back of the church, there came a loud: ‘Can we have a round of applause?’ and down the aisle marched a large man wearing a towel. I think just a towel, knotted at the waist. I sat up, this was interesting, was there going to be a short sketch? A bit of drama to explain the text?

The man strode to the front, went to the lectern and started to speak into the microphone. The vicar moved quietly to his side, and pushed the mic away, explaining that it was time for the sermon, it wasn’t the right time for the man to speak. Was this a sketch? Two other leaders appeared at the man’s side, and suggested he might like to join them somewhere quiet, where they could listen to him.

‘Is this a sketch?’ I whispered to Son.

‘I don’t think so,’ he answered, staring at the scene, ‘I think this is real.’

My first instinct was that maybe I should help—which I dismissed pretty quickly because I have absolutely no experience with either mental health or spiritual oppression, and I would just get in the way. The men were moving to the side door now, very calmly, leading the man out of the church. My second thought was whether that towel would stay in place, and whether I would resist laughing loudly if it fell off—but fortunately it didn’t fall. The man left, the sermon continued.

At the end of the service, the senior vicar returned, and explained that the man was being helped by counsellors, and please could the congregation leave by the side door, so we didn’t disturb them. He prayed for the man, and the service ended. It was certainly not boring.

As we left, I noticed the man (still wearing his towel) talking with two men in the glass-fronted foyer. Sensible to remain in a public place, I thought, sort of private but not hidden. I was impressed with how the whole thing was handled actually. The man was treated with dignity, but also moved away from where he could potentially harm people. The church clearly has some good policies in place.

We had coffee and homemade cookies, and then went to the pub for lunch. We drove back, collected mad dog (tempting to leave her for a few more days) and went home. A lovely trip.

I hope you had a good weekend too. Thanks for reading.
Take care,
Love, Anne x

Splash!

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Hello, how was your week? I have just had a lovely morning, so I shall share it with you. It started earlier than expected (I sometimes accept invitations from my husband without checking the fine details first). We were standing on the station at 7am, which was bit of a rush as I had to sort out Goose, and the randy cockerel (who now has to sleep in a prison because he hurts my other birds) and the 7 ducklings (who make a muddy soup of wherever they are living). But after a quick shower, I was in the car at 6:55 as directed, and at the station in time for the train. (Also discovered I cannot use my railcard until 9:30, so more expensive as well as much earlier, than expected.)

As we waited, the power at the station gradually stopped working: first the automatic ticket machine died, then the credit card machine at the hatch, then the information boards. A little weird that it didn’t happen all at once. We decided to opt for the first train—a diesel—in case the electric train also died. So we ended up on a train to London Bridge, when we were heading to Kensington High Street. It all added to the excitement.

After squeezing into over-crowded tube trains (don’t think about the germs) we escaped into fresh air at Kensington. Kensington is very posh—even the tube station has artificial flowers and fake-Italian coffee shops. We turned right, walked past a few posh shops and cafes, then left into the modern forecourt of the Design Museum.

Husband had been invited to a ‘Breakfast and Preview of Splash.’ Splash is the new exhibit (about swimming), and I wasn’t sure how keen Husband was when the invite first arrived, so I told him I thought Pamela Anderson was there because I’d seen her photo online. Though I’m sure that didn’t influence him at all.

We arrived and had our names checked at the door, then were offered coffee (in proper cups and saucers) and pastries. We didn’t know anyone, and it wasn’t a ‘work-do’ so Husband chatted to me (rather than networking) and it was rather nice.

We went to see the Splash exhibit. It was mainly a display showing various styles of swimwear—some of which would be rather draughty! Pamela Anderson obviously decided not to attend in person after all, but her swimwear was there, so I didn’t feel I had been dishonest. (I have similar measurements to Pamela Anderson, just arranged in a different order.)

There was also a display about mermaids, and one stating that very few black people in England can swim, though I don’t know why this would be a thing. (The black people not-swimming, not the mermaids—mermaids are definitely a thing.) I grew up on a council estate, and we all learnt to swim, and beaches in England are free—so it’s not a financial thing. Maybe their parents didn’t think it was important—most black people I know can drive, and learning to drive is much more hassle than learning to swim, so it must be a lower priority. I shall have to ask them.

I do love a pretty hat!
Such great movement in this painting.
Mermaids are definitely a thing.

The exhibit was not extensive, but it was bright and fairly interesting, and made a good excuse to go into London.

Before we came home we went to a cafe for brunch, and that was the best thing of all. We sat at a little wooden table, perched on slightly wobbly chairs, and watched the world go past. Most of the world (in South Kensington High Street) wear expensive shoes, and have manicured hair, and walk with purpose. I wondered who they were, and where they had come from, while sipping coffee and eating a huge almond croissant which fell into crumbs that scattered across my clothes—so I fear I did not look especially manicured myself. But I felt very contented. We talked about nothing, and I tasted Husband’s salmon on avocado toast, and it was all rather lovely, and one of those mornings that remind you of why you got married all those years ago. Sometimes, just being, is rather lovely.

We got home at midday, released mad dog, and started work for the rest of the day. A fun little interlude.

I hope you have something fun this week too. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Not a Great Week Here, How About You?

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This too shall pass. . .

Hello and how was your week? Mine was pretty rubbish to be honest, but I survived and by the time you read this (as I write blogs several weeks before I post them) I am sure all will be well again. But this week has been disappointing.

One disappointment is my cockerel, who is super-randy and sees everything else as a competitor to fight. Which means when anyone is in the garden, he starts to dance around them, ready to attack. It also means he attempts to copulate with anything he considers appropriate. He hurt Goose, so I moved him in with the chickens. He is so big and strong, he was damaging their heads (he holds onto the back of their head to keep them still while he ‘covers’ them) and one of my lovely white hens was so badly hurt she died. I now don’t know what to do. He was raised to be company for Goose, and they have been good friends—I love seeing them walking round the garden together, and at night they snuggle in the hay box. But he is currently too dangerous to be free. I have run out of safe places, because I have a mother duck and her ducklings in the spare cage. I am fond of him, so unwilling to eat him or leave him for the fox, but he is a problem.

When I first decided to move him, I shoved him into the duck house, just to keep him safe from the fox and the chickens safe from him. The duck house opens onto the pond. In the morning, I was extremely surprised to find him in the second duck house. This means he must have attempted to escape in the night, and tried to cross the pond—which involves swimming. Chickens cannot swim. He must have had a near-death experience! Silly thing. At least he will have learnt that he can’t swim. (He can fly, but he doesn’t seem to know that yet, and stays inside the fence.) My only solution is to leave him in the pond area during the day (because the ducks can swim away from him) and lock him into the nesting box at night (when the hens are roosting). But moving him is a lot of effort, and it won’t work when I go away, so it’s not a long-term solution.

Another major disappointment was receiving a form from university. It is an assessment form, and has 9 sections, each section is 4,000 words. I did not expect this until next summer, as I am part time, and I have not allowed time to complete it this month. This makes me very stressed. I am hoping it was sent in error, and I need to complete it in 2026, but I haven’t yet heard back from my supervisor. I am trying to be philosophical about this, and I am telling myself that if God wants me to complete the PhD, then as long as I work hard (which I am) all will be fine. But I am still stressed out!

One reason I have so little time is my venesections have started. I have to have a blood test 7 days beforehand (which wastes most of a morning due to delays in waiting rooms). The actual venesections are awful, mainly because they are in the oncology department, and it is very sad being with lots of brave people who are struggling with cancer. The staff are lovely, but the logistics of getting to hospital, and trying to park, and waiting until I can be seen (because health stuff always involves waiting) and then having blood removed for an hour is not my idea of fun. I am tired afterwards—I think mainly due to the stress of it all. And I know I am very fortunate that my condition is treatable, and I am grateful it was discovered in time, but it is still awful.

Not enjoying being a patient.

My last worry is the local election, when the Reform party won in my area. I find this extremely worrying. I am not political, but the only broadcast I have heard by Reform stated that: ‘we have too many immigrants. Most of them are young men. The majority are criminals.’ In my mind, this is hate-speech. This is the sort of rubbish Hitler was spouting in the 1930’s. It ignores the difference between immigrants and asylum-seekers. It ignores the fact that many immigrants are hard-working and our country needs them. It ignores the fact that if people are asking for asylum, and if they genuinely need it, we should be prepared to help them. In my opinion, the ‘criminals’ are the traffickers who bring them on unsafe transport, and the politicians who spread lies and fear. The Reform party have now said they will use their status (and the money that comes with it) to challenge the government so they are side-tracked from governing. This is not what I want my local councillor to do. It saddens me that this is happening. I also feel guilty, because I didn’t make the effort to vote in the local election. We need to start speaking against the mis-information and hate-speech, and we need to be sure to do our duty and vote.

As I said, by the time you read this, I expect my stress levels will have reduced and life will be calm again. Sometimes life is difficult, and we keep going until it’s better again. This too shall pass. Though I have no idea what to do with my randy cockerel.

Thanks for reading, I hope your week is better than mine.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

I will try to focus on the lovely ducklings instead. Their world is full of danger, but they simply get on with living with enthusiasm. They are my happy zone.
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anneethompson.com
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Finding Comfort in Uncertain Times

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Well, isn’t the news depressing at the moment! I find I am drawn to it, like a moth to a flame, with a sort of horrible fascination, wondering which world leader will have done something stupid today. There is a lot going on, and it can feel rather unsettling. However, today I read a few verses that reminded me to keep everything in context, not to get carried away by the stressy-gossipy-conspiracy of the whole thing—especially some of the things being posted on social media.

Now, I am taking these verses (Isaiah 8) completely out of context, and I am applying them in a way that was not at all how the original author expected them to be applied, and I am ignoring all the verses before and after. Usually I would think this was a slightly dodgy way to use Scripture, but I think, if I am only applying it to myself, and not using it to teach/correct other people, then it’s okay. (Sometimes the writers of the New Testament did the same thing.) I think sometimes a few verses might apply directly to the reader (me) and that is how Scripture ‘speaks’ today. So, with the health warning that I am not trying to teach anything from these out-of-context words, which you can apply however you feel is appropriate, this is what I read this morning:

Hoping you find them a comfort.

They are copied from stepbible.com (great if you want to compare translations) the ESV and the JPS TANAKH.

Enjoy your day.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

anneethompson.com
******

Meg’s Diary

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27/1/2025

We went to New York (this is January, before the tariffs), Meg went to kennels. She was happy enough to walk in, and greeted the staff like long-lost relatives, so I don’t feel guilty leaving her there. They take her for a walk each day, and she walks around the woods carrying logs (though she’s on a lead, so no chasing sticks).

However, when we collected her this time, they said she is aggressive towards other dogs, and lurches towards them when walking—though is fine when next to them in the kennel. This is a bit like when we drive—every dog we pass Meg barks at (it doesn’t make for peaceful journeys). I’m not sure what to do about it really, as she is fine when she’s with me in the woods.

Actually, she is brilliant in the woods. I forgot to take the lead yesterday, and I didn’t need it. I held a stick when I opened the boot, and Meg waited next to the car, watching to see where I would direct her. Other dog-owners were returning to the car park, and cars were whizzing along the main road, but Meg ignored them all. We had a lovely walk through the woods, I threw sticks, and called her when she got too far away, and she was completely obedient. We passed several other dogs, crossing paths with them, but whether they barked at her or not, Meg completely ignored them. Great. At the end of the walk I called her to heel, and we returned to the car (still no lead). I opened the boot, told Meg to jump in, and …nothing.

This has become a feature. When we return to the car, whether after a quick trip to the supermarket or a long walk round the woods, Meg refuses to get back into the car. She stands there, and looks at me. In her favour, she does not chase other cars or dogs, she just stands there, quietly waiting for me to take her for a longer walk. And I stand there, quietly waiting for her to jump into the car. Sometimes we stand there for a full 5 minutes, staring at each other, fully understanding what is being expected, refusing to give in. I usually break first, and practically choke her by trying to haul her into the boot. At which point she jumps nimbly in, giving me a withering ‘you have no patience’ look. Which is correct, I do not.

I’m not sure whether this counts as obedient or bad. She knows what I want, and doesn’t run away—but nor does she obey and get into the car. When I’m in a rush, it’s infuriating. I have started keeping dried fish treats in the car, as a bribe. The only change is that my car now stinks for fish, Meg still won’t get in.

Always carries the biggest stick she can find!
These were too big, but she tried.


14/2/2025

Meg has been fun this week. She is now fairly reliable when left alone in a room, and usually settles down near a radiator and snoozes. Only fairly reliable, as she did empty a plant all over the kitchen floor—so I wouldn’t leave her alone for too long, but gradually I am trusting her more.

I still cannot let her interact with my other animals though. I doubt she would hurt them on purpose, but she would definitely chase them, and might bounce them, which would be the equivalent to a truck landing on your head. When I’m sorting out the poultry, Meg rushes around, barking and trying to chase them through the side of the fence, which they find very upsetting. I realise I ought to spend time training her –taking her to the coop several times a day, and training her to sit or fetch her ball, thus teaching her to ignore the birds. But life is too busy, and it’s easier for now to just leave her in the kitchen whenever I need to be with the birds. Not ideal, but it works for now.

My other failure is chasing cars in the lane next to the garden. Whenever a car goes up the farm track, Meg charges at full speed along the fence line, trying to keep up with it. It’s good exercise I suppose, but it’s also reinforcing the drive to chase cars, which I really want to break her of—but I cannot be in the garden with her all the time, and there is no other way to stop her. I am telling myself (fully aware that I am probably lying to myself) that she can chase cars in the garden but can learn not to chase cars in other situations. I think this is untrue, but other solutions seem too difficult at this point. Maybe she will grow out of it.

When I return from my morning run, I usually spend some time training Meg. This is very simple—I lie on the lounge floor (where she is not allowed) doing my exercises, and Meg sits in the doorway. I have a ball, which she is not allowed to touch, and every few minutes I throw it, she retrieves it, I take it from her, put it on the floor and tell her to ‘leave!’ and then we start the whole exercise again. Today, Husband was working in the study, and I wasn’t sure throwing the ball up and down the hall would be quiet enough, so I decided to do my exercises on the landing carpet. Disaster! We went upstairs, Meg sat on the mat next to the radiator (her favourite place) I lay down on the floor and whump! A very happy German Shepherd dog landed on top of me! She was so excited, bouncing on me and licking my face, her tail smashing into anything in range as it swung backwards and forwards like a mad propeller. I couldn’t get her off me for ages, she is so strong, and was so excited that I was joining her on the carpet. I’m not quite sure what game she thought we were playing, but it clearly made her very happy. By the time I managed to stagger to my feet, I decided the wrestling match had been more than enough exercise for one day, so I went for a shower.

One afternoon this week, I was very tired but wanted to listen to an online lecture. So I took my phone to bed, and nestled into the pillows, ready for a sleepy listen. Meg followed me into the bedroom (where she is not allowed, but this happens more often than I like to admit) and lay down on the mat. She must have been tired too, because she started to snore. Then the lecture started, and I turned up the volume on my phone. Meg stopped snoring, and groaned. I ignored her. She groaned again. I ignored her. Then her head appeared alongside mine on the bed, and she stared at me, very pointedly, and groaned again. Clearly she was not appreciating the lecture on apologetics. She had a look in her eye that told me that if the noise didn’t stop, she might jump up onto the bed. Not to be encouraged. I took her downstairs, and listened to the lecture in a different room.

Usually when I work, Meg is very good. She lies on the carpet behind me, snoring and farting, with the occasional groan if I work for too long. It’s good (if smelly) company.

I hope you have some good (not smelly) company this week. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

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anneethompson.com
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The Sheep’s Poem

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We had such an interesting seminar last week. It was a joint initiative, the biblical studies students (that’s me!) joined with the Islamic studies students, and we had a guest speaker who joined us via the internet from the West Bank in Palestine. That alone made it pretty exciting.

There is a man (Jakub) and he is trying to get translations of the Bible in local Arabic dialects. He isn’t trying to ‘convert’ anyone, there’s no agenda here, he simply reads the passages to local people and asks them to interpret the texts according to their own understanding. How do local people (likely to be Muslim) interpret texts, when they are removed from our Western understanding? What do the texts mean today, to local people?

There is no problem with studying the Bible in the West Bank; this surprised me. I assume there would be a problem with trying to ‘convert’ people, but the book itself is openly sold in shops and it’s not uncommon to see Arabic versions of the Christian Bible in Muslim homes. For his research, Jakub asks people to tell him what the words mean to them, and then he translates them using the most suitable words in the dialect. Language is personal to people, so although in time A.I. will replace translators, it won’t understand the nuances of meaning in the same way as real people, in real time. It’s an interesting project, but I was especially excited by the next bit.

One of the example texts that Jakub has been working with is Psalm 23. You remember it—the one about the Good Shepherd, looking after his sheep? We listened to how a local man, Ahmed, interpreted the words, and I realised that perhaps my understanding of this well-known Psalm has been wrong. Perhaps the words mean something slightly different.

 You should also know that scholars have debated the interpretation of this Psalm for decades, and do not agree (this is pretty normal for scholars—they like to debate, and rarely agree). The Psalm begins with a relaxing pastoral scene, the sheep being led to pastures, with streams of water, and told to rest. Then there is reference to a table—so does the action now move into a house? Then the Psalm describes anointing with oil—so has the subject now changed to a person, maybe a king being anointed? It finishes in ‘the house of the LORD’ which would be the temple, which is where a sheep would be slaughtered as a sacrifice—so what does that mean???

 Ahmed is from a shepherding family in Palestine. He has spent time with his family’s flocks, caring for them in the wilderness. He told us how shepherding traditions are passed down, and have probably changed very little over the centuries. A sheep is still a sheep, they need the same food and water, and the landscape in the Palestinian wilderness is not much different to when the Psalmist cared for flocks and wrote his poem. He described how he understood the Psalm, and it helped me to understand it in a whole new light. Ahmed’s words made me understand the Psalm from the viewpoint of the sheep. Imagine a shepherd, who was also a poet (so a creative sort of chap) and he thinks about God, and he looks at his flock, and he writes a poem with the sheep as the subject—not a metaphor—this is the sheep talking. I will rename this: The Sheep’s Poem.

The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not need anything. Ahmed said a shepherd wants to raise healthy sheep, so he will ensure they have everything they need.

He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters; he restores my soul. God the shepherd takes the sheep to where they will find food, where they can rest safely, he cares about the sheep’s soul—the internal wellbeing of the speaker.

He leads me in right paths for his name’s sake. In Muslim thinking, the paths of God have special meaning, it is about living in the way that pleases God. In this Psalm, the sheep is being kept safe so he can please God the shepherd.

Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod and staff—they comfort me. Ahmed described how predators lurk in the valleys of the wilderness, and the sheep get frightened. A frightened sheep becomes erratic, so the shepherd uses his rod and staff to control them, to keep them safe, keep them on the right path.

You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Ahmed said that sometimes, if he has a ewe about to give birth and he wants to supplement her feed, he would make a little table by setting a plank of wood on logs, and he would put some grain or milk in bowls, and take the ewe there to eat. He also frequently rubbed oil on the heads of his flock, to calm them down, and improve their health. He said a sheep that is regularly anointed with olive oil has a much healthier coat and is less likely to get ill. It is the pinnacle of caring for a sheep.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the LORD for the rest of my days. In Islam, an animal is only ever killed as part of a ritual, a sacrifice to God (otherwise it is viewed as murder). Only after this ritual can a sheep be eaten. This sheep, which has been so cared for, is content to know that its purpose is to serve God as a sacrifice, it will go to the temple ready to die—death is not seen as an end, but as a beginning of something new—the sheep will be with God forever.

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I love when something familiar can be understood in a new way, and it makes perfect sense to me that this Psalm is about a sheep (because we see animals as periphery in the biblical texts, but I don’t think God does). Now, obviously the text wasn’t written for a sheep, even if it’s about a sheep. I’m not pretending sheep can read! But if we read this Psalm, about a sheep, can we not learn something? Does it not show what it means to have absolute trust? To know that our purpose is simply to be what we were designed to be (not what the rest of the flock thinks we should be)? The sheep doesn’t fear the future, or what will happen after it is time to physically die—the main event happens in the LORD’s house. It is never scary going home.

I hope you find this interpretation helpful. May we never stop learning new things in the biblical texts, they are such a helpful guide in life. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x