Emergency! Which service do you require?

The call we must all prepare for but hope never comes came on Sunday afternoon. The snooker was just getting interesting, and the log fire was well banked up. I had a nice cup of tea and a piece of Battenberg cake beside me. Suddenly, the red phone on the coffee table began to ring and flash on and off. “Emergency!” I said, “Which service do you require?”

“Evensong!” said an anxious voice. “Now!” It was the curate. “Eh?” I said, “It’s six o’clock already, and it’s your turn!”

“No can do!” she panted, “The dog’s having her puppies!” she gasped, “Gotta get her to the vet! She needs a caesarean!”

“Leave it with me!” I said, and sprinted to the study where a cassock and surplice hang ready for just this eventuality. I grabbed a prayer book, stuck the flashing light on top of the car (the purple one, for Advent), and drove at top speed four miles through the freezing night. The noise of my pounding feet rang on the stones as I dashed up the church path, and reached the door.

“Let me through, I’m a vicar!” I said, to no-one in particular, but I’d always wanted to say it. The congregation of eight looked around, rather startled.

I arrived just in time. “You’ve arrived just in time!” said the churchwarden, “I’ve announced the first hymn!”

“Keep calm, everyone,” I said in my reassuring, measured tones, “Everything’s going to be OK.”