When we're at the Courthouse for lunch, Nic and I bump into Beth Mc Arthur, St Aidan's organist. She's been to a funeral at the church but keen to go back to practise on Lionel's organ donation. A recital I'm personally invited to. The organ is a machine with knobs, levers and buttons and bamboozles Beth, if that's possible for an irrepressible octagenarian. I have a one fingered go at a few Christmas carols so Beth can listen to the sound, needs more volume, she says. Her friend, Carol, turns up. They both like the organ's tone and pitch, and I find the main volume knob. Better. I leave them pressing and comparing notes. St Aidan's is a lovely little church hardly anyone goes to because hardly anyone in this country is religious. Somewhere in the past two generations, we've become secular, with Maori tikanga stepping in to fill the spiritual void. Thank goodness. Lynette and I are sitting on 'Lynette's Rock' after a swim behind the dam when Beth arrives. Three times in one day- there's something in that. I should go to a Sunday service to hear Beth play.
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