the effect of a sudden Archdeacon on the state of a Curate's home.
At 11.45 today I was peacefully wandering amid the mayhem of Little Fishes, trying to nerve myself to head off to the Archdiaconal lair for my review meeting, when my mobile rang. It took me a moment or two to realise that it actually was my mobile, as I've recently done a swap (enabling DarlingDaughter to take a camera phone with her when she finally heads off on her travels) and tend not to recognise my new ring tone. Fortunately this time I got to the call before the caller had given up...and lo, the secretary of the Archdeacon spake unto me and revealed that he was, even now, putting on his coat in preparation for driving over to see me. At home. Here. Privet Drive. The cornucopia of chaos a.k.a. the Curate's House. I begged her to delay him for as long as possible, wasted a few precious moments shrieking to anyone within earshot that this was a disaster, and then wooshed down the hill at speeds I won't mention.
I hauled my startled daughter away from the computer, and we set to as if our lives depended upon it...Twenty minutes later, the sitting room looked positively beautiful, the study has a veneer of organisation (only I know just how thin....but it is kind of comforting to see that the carpet is still there, and still grey) and L had just finished sweeping (yes, sweeping...with a real broom) the hall. And he arrived. And was charming, helpful and affirming.
Made me feel a bit silly, actually.
This ministry thing may be a strange way of life, but it's the one that's right for me, and apparently my assorted diocesan bosses recognise and are glad of this.
Best just cut the cackle and get on with it, then.