| A familiar face
THERE we were, discussing the towel capacity of the airing cupboard and the vent-heating system, when out she came with: “I know you.” It has happened to us before, of course, in more places than I care to remember: John Lewis, the park, the pub, the cross-channel ferry, a campsite in Biarritz, and that dreadful near-miss in Spain (long story, won’t share now).
I really thought that when my husband and I moved out of the vicarage it would stop, but no, the very owners of the house we are moving into (new diocesan purchase, therefore no church history) recognise him. We agreed it must have been at primary school, many years ago. She had been a governor, and remembered his assemblies. (I noticed she didn’t say exactly what she remembered.)
It had already been stressful finding a house that fulfils diocesan requirements (I swear clerics are born with a set of books), family requirements (swimming pool and jacuzzi that, sadly, did not materialise), and canine requirements (room to run with no holes in fence).
The estate agent described the property as a tardis, and she was right — minute by vicarage standards from the outside, but, inside, the rooms unfolded one by one. We have yet to move in, but proceedings are under way, with a hand-over date just after Easter.
In the mean time, we remain in the vicarage, with husband doing new job and me explaining to everyone that we don’t have any keys, can’t do any baptisms, and simply aren’t interested in a possible wedding in the summer of 2009.
Of far more concern is how we will explain the three different-coloured walls in the main bedroom (seemed a good idea at the time), the two shades of green in the dining room (it’s amazing how colours look the same in dim light), and that unpainted patch in the kitchen. Let’s hope we’ve moved out before prospective new priests are shown round.
Addendum needed
PREPARING to move inevitably uncovers that lost book from years ago. In my case, it was a gem of an edition about being a clergy wife (published before women were ordained priests), presented to me by a very serious couple at my church in London.
I won’t reveal the title, as the content is bad enough — frightening, in fact. One piece of advice is: expect to be on 24-hour call, but it is perfectly acceptable to have a hobby outside church. Many tips follow on how to keep your husband happy (nothing raunchy, of course), and, lastly, some bullet-points on how to run a meeting if your husband is too busy to run it himself.
I note the author omitted the chapter on how to look the other way when you think you’ve been recognised.
Some are for Apollo
ATTENDING festivities at a neighbouring church in Croxley Green — a pleasant, leafy suburb between Rickmansworth and Watford — we bump into the Bishop of Hertford, the Rt Revd Chris Foster. Not good news, as Wolves (his team) had soundly beaten Watford (our team) the day before, and had booted us out of the FA Cup.
His sermon was worth hearing, however, as he introduced us to a new Pauline concept. The subject was the passage from Corinthians where Paul is holding forth about the centrality of Christ, and not following different factions.
He (the Bishop, not Paul) warned about the 21st-century danger of being too caught up with labels within the Church: Evangelicals (and those Evangelicals chastised for not being sound enough); liberals; prayerbookites; traditionalists; and Anglo-Catholics. Also, a marvellously named new group, “over-my-dead-bodiers”. And I think we all know some of those.
Taxing moments
AS BOTH a freelance and part-time (i.e. regular salary) journalist, I have a troubled relationship with the tax office; if this was my marriage, we would definitely be referred to Relate. They believe they have the gift of prophecy, and tell me each year what I am going to earn the next — and tax me accordingly.
The year 2006 was a bad year for prophecies, and just before Christmas 2007 I received a nice little rebate that covered my nice little Christmas shop. Imagine my horror, a few weeks later, when I received a letter asking for it back.
After 24 hours of unnecessary worry, I did the sensible thing and rang them. “Oh, don’t worry, it’s just the computer: it always does that —tells you what you would have owed us if you’d not paid your tax.”
Confused? I was, but also mightily relieved. Friends could not resist telling me their own computer glitches, or, even better, those of the local clerics.
Once upon a time there was a young Roman Catholic priest who prided himself on state-of-the-art service sheets. He could not understand the giggling before a particular funeral — Patrick had been a much-respected stalwart of the church. Then he realised that his computer had correctly inserted “Patrick” on the sheet at every point where the name of the deceased had been used in the previous funeral — unfortunately, her name was Mary.
A question of gussets
LAST MONTH’S story about the lack of support in Jeremy Paxman’s Marks & Spencer underpants (his email of concern to M&S was understandably leaked for the health of the nation) broke the same day as the press launch for the Lambeth Conference.
Bearing in mind that most bishops are men, I wonder what they would have made of the many column-inches in the British press on the subject? More to the point, what would they have made of the underpants — perhaps a question to go on this summer’s agenda? It might lighten the proceedings a little.
In addition to being a Church Times reporter, Rachel Harden is married to a priest in St Albans diocese.
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