Tuesday Evening


The Snorter and the Rev are discussing lambs when I walk into the bar and as I get my drink it occurs to me that the Rev might be finding the conversation painful on account of all that religious imagery. As I sit down he gives me an anguished look, the Rev has a bag of winter mixtures in front of him which suggests the onset of tonsillitis.

"How did it go then?" I ask him, the Rev had been well for a week and therefore had had to deliver a sermon at the Monday WI Matins.

"Well I took as my text the dying words of Henry the Eighth, 'All is lost! Monks! Monks! Monks!' It seemed to go down quite well, at least the Wymsey WI are a polite lot and my headache is beginning to recede."

"I really think that you need to look at why you persist in that job." I tell him.

"I know, Gordon says the same; he wants me to join him on a workshop called 'Father, Son.'

"What no holy ghost?"

The Snorter receives a kick in the shins, "Your round Snorter."

While he is at the bar I invite the Rev to share next Sunday's roast, "You know if you are ever decide to give up trying to save souls my house has plenty of room."

The Rev looks at me gratefully and gives my arm a squeeze, "Thank you Stanley."

© c.ivermee, 1988-2010

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