My wonderful vicar is away in the States for 10 days, celebrating his son's wedding...so naturally, people have begun dying all over the parish with dogged determination. It always happens, the moment one of us is away...the funeral directors have a hotline direct to the parish office and I've now funerals Thursday, Friday and Tuesday.
No problem with this, except for the fact that Procrastinators RUs (aka Revd Good in Parts) has a 3000 word reflection on the Diaconate to post to the Bishop by Friday...Not to worry, though, it's my day off tomorrow, so I should catch up then. Meanwhile, this evening featured a confirmation class in which my youngest dissolved into floods, after his heartless mother read the riot act over his incessant interruptions and general domination of the group...Poor J eventually managed to point out that we never have any time for Big Questions these days, so if he doesn't hold centre-stage in the confirmation group then he'll never get a chance. Racked with guilt, I'm booking Mummy and J slots in the diary henceforth and even for ever more.
After this, did a funeral visit....the husband was weepy but determined. The dog, a rather beautiful Sheltie, was equally determined...that no other woman would be allowed into her mum's sitting room. Why couldn't she have bitten a hole in my sadder pair of jeans??...these ones had been OK till then...but I had to pretend that nothing much had happened, as the poor man was in such a state anyway. Toothmarks on my leg, but no blood shed, so presumably I'm unlikely to be more rabid than usual in the morning!
Finally, got home just after 9.00 to discover that darling husband, who was due to depart for London at sparrow tweet tomorrow, had somehow managed to fill his petrol driven Volvo with diesel...so was having to siphon it all out and then start again...
If I included this evening in the "Reflections..." essay, I think I might think twice about priesting me. Discretion is the better part of valour, so they say.