Monday, 15 June 2015

I dropped it

Fanny loves churches.  Especially old, idyllic country churches.  There's nothing more delightful than a landscape punctuated by a spire rising from the somnolent water-meadows of the English Shires.  When feeling all churchy, I love nothing more than a rousing chorus (perhaps Cum All Ye Faithful), and passing the collection pot and dropping in a few drachmas or pesetas, whispering the Lord's prayer in reverence, and then when the service is over, going to the Rectory for tea and scones and, later on, having a play on the Vicar's organ.  English churches are a bit like English cottages and cottaging.  They become habit-forming.  In fact, in all the world there's not a more religious country than England where anyone who is of high social standing goes to church on Sunday morning, and then cottaging on Sunday afternoon. 

Here I am, on Sunday morning, at my local St Helen's Church, just about to go in for the service.  The Sung Eucharist had just begun with All Creatures Great and Small and just as I gaily skipped up the steps, my right contact lens fell out.  Rather than suffer the humiliation of not being to see the words in the choirbook, I spent a good ten minutes looking for it.   The Rector glared at me as I hobbled into the dimly lit church, with only one seeing eye.  His paper-thin lips paused mid-song, giving the look of someone sucking on a very large, very over-ripe plum.  I've come over a bit church-y lately, hence my rare appearance in the pews.


  1. Boy, I see you have dug deep to break out the summer wears. Nothing worst then getting over heated in church. Unfortunely, I have only seen the inside of a church once. I was an acolyte in my youth. For some reason unknown to me I was always left blind folded, and had to be on my knees, for some unknown reason. And my robe was awful drafty.. And the congregation was very quiet, almost like they weren't there.

  2. All things bright and beautiful, spring to mind! What a delightful pastoral scene you paint, Fanny. Tea and scones, or tea and crumpet?

  3. I'm fine with that hymn until they get to the bit about the purple-headed mountain, that's when my sphincter starts to slacken and twitch involuntary, forcing me to squat down between pews and relieve myself with the lypsyl. Granted, not appropriate behaviour for a funeral but needs must when the Devil drives.