Friday, 2 August 2013

Cornwall day 8

Having spent 7 exhausting days relaxing, Emma and I decided to try a radical approach and stay in. The kids agreed, so I set about reading every page of Wikipedia.
As a Catholic, albeit lapsed to the point that avoiding eternal damnation would require me to say Hail Marys until well after the sun has gone supernova, I perhaps should have known what the "Synoptic" gospels are. The term refers to those of Matthew, Mark and Luke which apparently broadly agree; there is however much dispute about which documents were based on which, with the prevailing opinion seemingly that that of Mark preceded the other two. This is known as the... um... 'Markan' position. No that's not a Greek word, it's just "Mark" with "an" appended. Makes me wonder what people would say if I wrote something on which others based their texts: "Aidan-an" sounds comical enough to motivate me to do this.
Apparently the Gospel of John is significantly different from the other, 'Synoptic' gospels and actually contradicts them in various ways. Clearly God was having an off day when he dictated his literal word of truth to the anonymous author of the gospel which scholars agree was written 200 years after Jesus' death and was wrongly attributed to the apostle John who presumably didn't live to be 200 years old then.
Also, ever heard of the Egerton gospel? Nope me neither. This is a collection of papyrus fragments found in the 1930's containing stories about Jesus that are completely different to those in the canonical gospels and appear somewhat apocryphal, y'know silly stuff like making plants grow quickly, rather than the classic raising people from the dead type trick found in John. Obviously hokum.
Then I made some sarnies for the kids then took them swimming. What seemed like 1 hour after lunch it was apparently mealtime again, and with our plan of going out somewhere for tea frustrated by being bloody miles from anywhere and a sodding great thunderstorm and Emma unable to be arsed, instead popped round to the shop in Portscatho to buy comestibles accompanied by sons 1 and 2. Had a bit of a Homer Simpson moment and having inattentively acceded to their demands returned with 1 x Heritage (cheap) lasagne, 1 x Heritage (cheap) chicken chow mein, 2 x chicken flavour Supernoodles. Imagine Michael's plate: a heap of scarcely identifiable pseudo-Chinese food substance noodles alongside a heap of nuclear waste yellow, um, noodles. Bad dad. Withering looks from Emma: They're not blokes you know." Not yet, but I'm working on it.

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