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john davies
notes from a small vicar
from a parish
in Liverpool, UK

    Friday, April 25, 2003
    Precarious. Me, too hot'n'bothered or not bothered enough to borrow a stepladder, wobbling on a makeshift perch - armchair, window ledge, one hand clutching the bay wall, the other doing the work. I don't do DIY often but having brought the dodgy old curtain rail crashing down the other day in a hurry to see what had caused the crashing noises outside, and with evening meetings to host in that tatty old 'church only' front room, I got my finger out today, replaced the shoddy old plastic rail with a shining new metal one. It was close, but I survived intact.

    Precarious. Only took a second for that van to swing out of the side road here into the path of a bigger van, the cause of that crashing sound the other breakfast-time. Little boy got taken away in an ambulance, more shocked than anything else. Big van-driving men looked sheepish, spoke gently to each other. It was shaky, but they all survived intact.

    Precarious. Only took a second for a collision on the road home from the DIY superstore this afternoon. It'd been clear when I went through it fifteen minutes earlier; on my return it was a brutal scene, vehicles at all angles everywhere, sirens, lights, and young spectators vying for the best view by climbing walls, fences, and metal structures in the play area alongside. Hopefully all involved survived intact.

    Precarious. Precious. The two words are so close to each other. They both relate to humans going about our everyday stuff, close to falling, close to glory, always and everywhere precarious and precious.