Except that it isn’t, any more.
When I was young, the three Sundays before Lent were called the time of Septuagesima. The priest wore purple instead of the green which denotes Ordinary Time – I love Ordinary Time, normally, in liturgy as in the rest of life. Thank God it’s Monday, is my motto. But the purple of Septuagesima Sunday was a useful reminder that Lent was immanent.
Nowadays, there’s no warning at all, unless you happen to notice the cookery writers talking about pancakes.
Septuagesima was a fairly late addition to the liturgical year, and it was swept away in recent reforms. I pay more attention to it now than when it was actually observed. I’m going to miss my ciderous Sundays fully as much, if not more, as I used to miss cider on all seven days.
Tennis: there is a distinct feeling of Scotland Expects, around here.
Andy Murray was a boy at that school in Dunblane the day Thomas Hamilton came in and started shooting children. Now there’s a factoid for you.
There’s much to be said, about the pronunciation of “often” – Tamar, that’s fascinating; about the difficulties of calculating a new gauge for the Harlequin; about the Grandson sweater. I’ve done nine inches of sleeve – I’ll try to take a picture when full daylight arrives.
But now I’m going to go turn on the television.