It’s that strange day that’s Easter Sunday, when I cannot discern between my right hand and my left, having slept for a couple of hours the previous evening (which I usually can’t manage, but this time I did, and even dreamed about spaceships) and stayed up until the small hours. My body usually wakes me up around 9, whether I went to bed at 4 or at 7, so I get up and drift around the house aimlessly, joined after some time by other people who are also drifting around the house aimlessly, still sated from the nightly feast but at the same time peckish, so we eat incongruous things at odd times until family members from elsewhere drift in and we sit down for a proper meal, in this case two-thirds of an enormous leg of lamb hogget. (It must be, because actual lambs don’t have legs that size. A medium-sized family can still feast on the piece the butcher cut off because we protested that the whole thing was too big for us.)
 No, spellchecker, not puckish, sickish, thickish, peevish or perish. And ‘hogget’ is a word too, you know. For that matter, so is ‘spellchecker’.
This Holy Week and Easter –we haven’t had the last service yet, so it’s conditional– if someone had asked me which service I liked best I’d have said “this service we’re having right now” every time. Even the Royal Hours: every year I think “bleh, Royal Hours, okay, I’ve committed myself so I’ll go” and every year I love it. But yes, all the services. It wasn’t all seamless: we’ve never made so many false starts as this year, perhaps because we’ve never had this deacon in the Easter night yet (he was ordained on Ascension Day last year), or just because more than half the choir was unpractised in the difficult pieces because they were ill or away when we practised those. But it didn’t matter. In the Easter night, nothing matters. And afterwards we claim the children’s annex of the community room for the altar and the choir, and sit around being tired and eating and drinking and dissecting the service and squeeing about clothes with great squee and understanding each other in the too-tired-to-think way, “well, thing, you know what I mean”, “yes, totally.”
 Not because we’re too stuck-up to associate with the plebs, but because we’re exhausted. It’s pure self-preservation. If any of us wants to mingle they can go and do so, but we don’t want to be forced by circumstances.
It’s Easter for another forty days. Poor Western Christians who stop celebrating the moment the feast is there.