Sunday 24 September

Gwen has forbidden me to talk to the press.  I knew I was in trouble when she changed the hymn boards and we did Amazing Grace instead of Bread of Heaven, and after the service she had a private meeting with Mum and Mrs Ramsbotham that went on for ages.  Mum won’t tell me what Gwen said, but she was in a very bad mood when she came home and I had to cook my own dinner (beans and spaghetti on toast with a perfectly cooked poached egg on top, and a bowl of Aunt Bessie’s delicious oven chips.  Aunt Bessie isn’t my Aunt Bessie because my Aunt Bessie can’t cook for toffee: she is another Aunt Bessie.  She must be very busy preparing oven chips every working day, because they have them in the Co-Op as well as in our Spar, but perhaps that is her vocation in life, preparing oven chips, as mine is professional organisting, and as we are so frequently enjoined from the pulpit we should not make judgments about people lest we have a beam in our own eye) (whatever that is supposed to mean.)

Antony wasn’t in church.  Not only is he very conceited but his attendance record is appalling.  I shall have to say something to Gwen next Sunday in my secondary capacity as Choirmaster.

Saturday 23 September 10:00pm

I was a little apprehensive after my tea, particularly as I could see and hear the police helicopter hovering above our steeple, and it was only when I explained to one of the uniformed marksmen in full riot gear who ringed the church that I was the Organist and had to do my practice for tomorrow’s service that I was allowed through the cordon, such is the respect accorded to our national faith.

Inside all was quiet, apart from low murmurs from the choir vestry and an occasional hoot of mirth.

Bravely I ventured in to my choir vestry.  And there was mum with a cup of tea and a big smirk on her face, and there was Mrs Ramsbotham, with a cup of tea and another big smirk on her face, and there were the Flower Ladies, similarly armed with cups of tea and smirks.  The floor was littered with used tea-bags and bits of discarded foliage.

“”Ee, ’e’s a grand lad, your Barry”, exclaimed an elderly lady with an eye patch and several blackened teeth, who was introduced to me as Mrs Whimpenny, Head Flower Lady and Mother of Chapel.  “’E fell forrit just like you said ’e would.  Daft as his dad.”

Mum explained.  It was all Antony’s doing.  He had complained to Gwen that he’d had awful attacks of hay fever when he was tidying the music in the vestry and couldn’t sing his solos, and he blamed it on the lilies which the Flower Ladies strew about with gay abandon, and the Flower Ladies, having been tipped off by a disaffected verger, had counter-attacked with the claim that Antony’s singing gave them migraines as well as varicose veins. 

“Eh, cut the cackle”, said Mrs Whimpenny rather sharply to mum. “’E’s your lad.  Tell ’im what he’s got to do.”

But it was Mrs Ramsbotham who took me to one side.  “Barry, dear”,  she said soothingly.  “We want you to use your influential friends in the Press to give publicity to the Flower Ladies’ demands, which are legion. Between you and me, they are afraid the PCC is going to listen to Antony and have plastic flowers adorning the High Altar in future, thus putting them out of a job and therefore their influential position in the ecclesiastical hierarchy.  I and your mum have co-opted all the Flower Ladies onto the PCC as a precaution, but the vote is by no means a foregone conclusion and therefore we need public opinion on our side.  Barry, forget Iraq, forget Afghanistan.  This is serious.”

And then she said:

“And Barry, this stand-off was organised by e-mails which emanated from your laptop. So be a good boy, and do what mum says.  Or else.”

  

I realised that I had been entrapped by low feminine cunning, and my silent plea to James Bond was unforthcoming resultwise.  Then mum handed me a list of things that the flower ladies were demanding and said I was to use my contacts in the National Press to get it on CNN and Sky News. Not the BBC, mum warned me.  Too provincial, also desperately short of funds because they are still paying off Jonathan Woss with the takings from the licence fee.

“You go out there, Barry, and tell the bobs to put down their weapons, then tell the press the truth about the oppression of flower ladies by an unholy alliance of Suffragan Bishops and Choral Scholars.  They have had enough of victimisation and oppression and prejudice, and they have banded together under a banner which will inspire a revolution by flower ladies the world over.  But keep the message simple, Barry, so that they can understand it.”

So I went out and said “the Flower Ladies are revolting, but this is what they want”, and the policemen had a quick chat among themselves and said “sounds reasonable to us, Squire, and you’re dead right, they are.  A more villainous lot I never saw in all my puff.  We’ll have to nip off, though, because Control says someone’s been spotted riding a bike without lights, and the helicopter’s already up. Have a nice day.”

Saturday 23 September 5:00pm

I am going to have to make my own tea, although it is actually mum’s turn, but she can’t fulfil her obligations because she and Mrs Ramsbotham are being held hostage in church by the Flower Ladies.  Mrs R managed to slip off to the awful vestry loo for a moment to phone the police before the battery in her mobile ran out, and the first I knew of this alteration in our domestic arrangements was when my friend from the Daily Mail telephoned for the Inside Story, having had a tip-off from a disgruntled nark in the Police call-centre.  It was all a complete surprise to me, of course, and my first thought was that he was phoning to arrange an interview for that feature about me that he had promised.  But no.  He was very excited.  “That can wait, Barry,” he said.  “Don’t your realise that your mum is being held hostage by a gang of armed Flower Ladies?  There’s massive human interest here, Barry, what with police brutality and little old ladies, and our readers will love it.”

He promised me another £25 cheque if I visit the scene and phone him back with a first-hand report, and I agreed.

I suppose it will have to be boiled egg and soldiers to sustain me through what could prove a long and trying ordeal.  Luckily there are two eggs left, and after my tea I will make all speed up to church, for mum might be in danger.

Saturday 23 September 12:00 noon

A breakthrough.  After less than an hour exploring the contents of the laptop I discovered something called Inbox, and when I looked inside there was this:
 
 
From: barry.acne@gmail.com
To: barry.acne@gmail.com

Subject: My First E-mail

Date: Fri 22 September 21:30:47 +0000

Hello Barry

It is possible that I was a little premature in blaming the postman for the non-delivery of my e-mail.  Apparently e-mails do not require the intervention of human postmen – or postladies, I assume – because they are delivered by means of Electronic Communication through the frictionless medium of The Ether.

Saturday 23 September 9:15am

Saved!  Mum had a phone call from Mrs Ramsbotham and has had to rush out to church.  Apparently the flower ladies are rioting in the graveyard because somebody has removed all their Oasis records, without which they say they will be unable to meet their legal obligation to fill the ecclesiastical urns with large white lilies in readiness for tomorrow’s services.

So now for an exciting session with my laptop...

Saturday 23 September 8:30am

No post.  I saw the postman go past on his bike five minutes ago.  It is a great disappointment, I must say, and I am inclined to agree with Mr Grudge, who regards all forms of communication since the invention of the Carrier Pigeon as unnecessary and undesirable. “The Quill and the Pigeon”, Mr Grudge regularly intones.  “Mark my words: The Quill and the Pigeon.”  Garnham once asked Mr Grudge if The Quill and Pigeon was the name of his favourite public house, and got a double detention for impertinence.

I would like to be at my laptop learning even more about IT, but mum beat me to it, and has been up and firing off e-mails in all directions since 7:00am.

I could tell her that our machine is evidently faulty, for the e-mails are not being delivered, but she will just have to find out the hard way.  I shall therefore boil myself an egg to keep my strength up and then wait until she goes shopping, when I will have the laptop all to myself.

Friday 22 September 10:30pm

My Mum is amazing! I wish she had taken my IT exam instead of me, for she would have got a Grade A-star-plus.  As soon as we’d finished the Chinese take-away she had summoned she was off, connecting plugs here and plugs there, and suddenly we were on the Internet!  In our house!  On my laptop!

But the best thing is that I can now use my e-mail!  Mum helped me write a message to myself.  I couldn’t think of anything to say that I didn’t know already, so I just typed ‘Hello Barry’.

It is wonderful!  I am really getting a grasp of it now.  Mum’s gone to bed and I’ve only just switched the laptop off.  It is indeed a New World to be explored.

I can’t wait for the postman to arrive tomorrow with my e-mail to myself.