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That Mister Testicle went off to Manchester for the day. Dressed as usual as the epitomy of the English countryman, he went by train, and enjoyed a tram ride across the city centre, and a good look round the refurbished city; urban renewal courtesy of the IRA. On a whim he went into the magistrates court, which he had heard was a remarkably beautiful building. Passing through airport style security, all the alarms went off; security staff appeared and he was apprehended. A long fixed blade knife was removed from the coat pocket of his thorn-proof jacket. Explanations were required."I was cutting some wood earlier", said TMT.
"In Manchester?" said the suspicious guards.
TMT talked his way out of it and was allowed to leave. "I just wanted to look at the architecture", he told them as he left for the station.
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Posters and prayer cards have arrived for the Lambeth conference. They show happy smiling bishops from various parts of th world. I don't know where these were taken, but it clearly wasn't at an Anglican conference. Our diocese is asking for volunteers to host bishops in their home. The Stonemason said she would bid for Archbishop Akinola. Perhaps i could entertain the Archbishop of Sydney.
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I went to see R's ageing mother in her draughty and untidy house, stuffed full of clutter reminding her of the days she and her husband were in what she still calls "the Colonies". "Keen-ya" she says. Never "Ken-ya". While I'm talking to her she gathers up a handful of twigs in the hearth, and tears a few sheets from a crumpled copy of the "Daily Telegraph". She throws these into the battered stove and tosses in a match, while continuing to tell me some tale of life in the fifties. A roaring fire bursts instantly to life, bringing warmth to the chill room.
"I suppose I shall have to get used to calling you by your first name," she says, "as i believe is the custom these days". "Thank you" I mumble. "And you may call me Edith," she says. "Thank you," I say again. "But not in the village," says Edith. "In the village, I am always Mrs E. Smith". "Very well," I say, checking the calendar. Yes, it is the twenty-first century. As I leave I tell Edith where I am going next. "Give her my best wishes," she instructs me.
When I arrive at the farmhouse, and am sat down with coffee and a plate of cakes, I remember the instructions.
"Mrs E.Smith sends her best wishes," I say.
"Who?"
"Mrs E. Smith"
"Oh, you mean Edith!"
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I thought the day was over, but no sooner in the house than a call to go to Ken who is dying. His daughter is there. I sit with them both for an hour and we talk quietly about the old man, 99 years old and to the last a grumpy old sod, she says. Eventually i decide to go off home and perhaps check back on progress later. I take the bony hand and say "Cheerio Ken!" to the prone and unconscious figure. "God bless!". i take my leave and head down the stairs, but at the door I'm called back.
"He's gone!" she says. "What a remarkable ministry!" she says, "How do you do that?"
I'm not sure anyone will want to shake hands with me again if this gets out.
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It's now two a.m. The Sri Lanka test is on the radio. I'll read some Jenny Diski. Or maybe a little philosophy. That should send me off.
