The Outpost Apostolic Church is one of the Orthodox churches, so they usually celebrate Easter on different dates than everyone else, because they use the Julian calendar to calculate its date. Why? So as to keep in step with those Orthodox churches that still use the Julian calendar across the board — by the way, that’s why Russian Christmas is on the 7th or the 8th of January. This surreal decision stems from the self-evident decision not to correct the calendar just because some pope fellow decided to, a mere 500 years ago (Orthodox churches are very slow: I would wager they will seriously debate priesthood for women in 50 years or so). In any case, the above meant that this year’s Easter was on May Day, with Christians and workers rejoicing together (or maybe not).
Hence I took a holiday. I visited my parents’ home. Although they are still alive and well, the place already feels like revisiting a distant memory, a feeling oddly juxtaposed with familiarity and recognition. This was augmented by seeing an old school mate in the street, totally by chance. She was pregnant, which was very strange, her being the only genuine 15 year old rebel I used to know back then. She was smiling, as ever, and did not recognise me. Talking to her felt like tactless intrusion. So I did not.