Today has been Saturday all day.A proper Saturday,- that is, one with no weddings, no meetings, no training programme, a chance to engage in some serious desk-clearance and dream up a short homily for the 8.00 Communion tomorrow.
Not a day off, but a working day whose tempo I'm in control of. Lovely!
The day unfolded gently, with some useful bits and bobs achieved, a few phonecalls made and arrangements confirmed for two funerals next Thursday. The family of the second funeral hoped it might be possible to meet today.
Of course we could...Would they prefer to come here, or should I go to them?
The new vicarage is on the same site as the old one...No name plaque as yet (note to self - that simply isn't acceptable. DO SOMETHING woman!) but quite easy to find.
There, of course, was the fatal flaw.
They opted to come here, so I simply put the phone down and went on footling happily at my desk...till suddenly it was 4.00, - a knocking on the door and - oh my life - two very confused-looking ladies.
They didn't need to say the words, - they were written all over their faces
"What have you done with the real vicar?"
Real vicars, you see, look the part. They wear sensible clerical garb.They certainly don't answer the door in patchwork trousers, tee shirt and flip flops (revealing the rainbow nail varnish that remains from pre-Greenbelt frivolity)...
Judging by the age of the ladies, and their apologetic confirmation that they hadn't "done" church in years, real vicars are almost certainly male too.
Poor loves. First a brother they'd all but lost touch with ups and dies...then the vicar appears as an ageing hippy.
I think by the time they left they were beginning to believe that I might be the genuine article...but I'm sorry I caused them additional angst.
I must remember to think before I answer the door...I'm supposed to be grown up now!
7 comments:
That story made me smile from ear to ear.
You are a love.
Hmmm - I used to live in a Vicarage with a real Vicar (my Dad) who always wore his dog-collar, but would sometimes relapse in informality by taking his (Harris Tweed sports) jacket off, and then when the door-bell rang there was a frantic search for where he had left it before he could answer the door correctly dressed.
As I prepare to make a hospital call in my Saturday afternoon jeans, I love this picture of you. (((k)))
Love it! I have to admit that if I know I'm meant to be in Vicar Mide there's often a collar handy, but that's not a magic cure-all.
Don't the canons have something about wearing something indicative of your "devout and holy calling"?
Surely your visible aura of holiness should do that? (Or a t-shirt wot says "Vicar")!
And I don't have a sign saying "Vicarage" either. It wasn't there when I arrived and I think it might stay that way...
:-)
(Oh and I love drmoose's suggestion of a t-shirt wot says vicar)
At least you were "clothed and in your right mind"!
A perfectly proper vicar!
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