Sunday 17 September (Trinity 15)

No Antony at church this morning. Gwen preached about Upmarket Church (organs and choirs and Henry Persil) and Downmarket Church (guitars and pimples and Graham Kendrick) and suffering little children (probably a swipe at Antony’s solo singing). We are definitely Upmarket in my Church, which is no doubt why Ken had to move on.

There is a great sense of relief that the threat of legal action has been removed, and Gwen says she intends to have the old choirstalls reinstated, for plywood choirstalls with chromium fittings are naff and only appropriate in Downmarket Churches (said Gwen.) I only hope they haven’t rotted while in the boilerhouse and being used for target practice by the Vicarage cat.

Gwen has also offered to help with the choir (which at present numbers one, when he remembers to turn up). Apparently she has had some experience with choirs. She says that if we are to be a proper Upmarket Church we must launch an immediate recruiting campaign now that the schools are back.

I had only been home a few minutes when there was a loud banging on the door. I heard Mum shriek from upstairs: “Don’t open it – it’s the Swat Team, and they’re after your poor Mummy.” “No it isn’t”, said an exasperated voice through the letterbox. “It’s me, Tarquin – Antony’s dad. Have you got my handcuffs?” My mind raced, as James Bond’s must have done at moments of great danger. Tarquin! I filed the information away for possible future use.

“Oh come on, Barry”, he hissed (hissed?) “Just stick them through the letter box and we’ll forget about your mum assaulting a police officer in the execration of his duty. And Barry, I hope you didn’t eat any of that blancmange. Forensics thought it was Semtex and blew up my uniform in a controlled explosion.”

Mum was still shrieking and I thought at any minute she’d start throwing things about again, so I dug the handcuffs up from my unfragrant satchel and popped them through the letterbox. “Ar thanks lad”, said the police officer otherwise known as Tarquin. “You’ve probably saved my life. The Super gets really shirty when us bobs mislay our darbies. Any time you need a dependable professional witness, lad, you can count on me. We coppers are trained never to allow the facts to get in the way of a few whopping great porkies up there in the witness box, ho-ho.” A fiver fluttered through the letterbox and, with catlike tread, he was gone . I opened the door but there was no sign of him. My hero 007 would have been proud of me. Then I remembered mum and shouted upstairs: “He’s gone, and I don't think he'll be coming back.”

Mum came down and made lunch, and it was edible. She said she was proud of me, and if I wanted to I could practise the Raindrop Prelude all afternoon.

So what with one thing and another, and all in all, not a bad day, considering.

Saturday 16 September

Mum has locked herself in her room again. She is wailing and throwing things about. I though Antony’s father was very polite when he appeared in full uniform and asked Mum if he could see her CRB clearance, which mum is supposed to have now that she is on the PCC, the PCC being stacked with vulnerable adults, and I don’t think it was very wise of mum to throw the blancmange all over him, for mum’s blancmanges are often a bit lumpy. When I had helped him get up and wiped his uniform down and pushed back the dents in his helmet he said he was very sorry, but he now had no choice but to arrest mum. It was at that moment that Mrs Ramsbotham phoned. I explained that there was a bit of a problem with a policeman, and that mum had just gone up to her room to throw things about, but she just sighed and said: “Barry. This is official PCC business. Put the ruddy rozzer on.”

The policeman wasn’t like mum, who always repeats everything Mrs Ramsbotham says, so I always hear both sides of a conversation. After warning Mrs R that anything she said might be taken down, he didn’t say very much at all, as people tend not to when Mrs R is in full swing. But I could hear Mrs Ramsbotham crackling away at him, and when he gave me the phone back he looked a bit pale, and said it might be a good idea if he came back tomorrow, if I thought I would be safe in the house. “Jolly good, then”, he said, before I’d even had time to answer. He must have a had a lot of serious crimes to solve before bedtime, for he was off like a shot, so rapidly that he left his handcuffs behind.

The phone started whistling at me, so I picked it up. “Barry – is that you?” said Mrs R. I confessed that it was. “Has that bluebottle gone?” “Yes”, I said, “but he’ll be back – he’s forgotten his handcuffs.”

“Oh poo”, shrieked Mrs R (well, she didn’t exactly say ‘poo’). “Listen, Barry. On no account let your mum find those handcuffs. Barry – promise me you will hide them? It was handcuffs and hormones that caused all that trouble in 1993.*”

I promised Mrs Ramsbotham I would hide them, just to get her off the phone, and I put them in my satchel, which even after two nights in the shed still pongs a bit of the sort of cheap aftershave which some teenage boys splash liberally about their persons rather than a) employ it for its proper purpose, viz. and to wit, descaling lavatories, or b) wash.

After the events of today I shall need a period of calm and reflection so that I am able to fulfil my obligations at church tomorrow. I shall therefore go to bed now and read a little more Dostoevsky. I have nearly finished p8.

*No, she didn’t go into details. I wondered, too.

Friday 15 September

Dear Antony,

I have to say that you did a marvellous job of sorting out the piles of ancient music in the choir vestry. You are one of my oldest friends, and I knew that you, with your background in Advanced Cathedral Worship, were the only person who could be entrusted with such a really really important task, which of course I would have willingly performed myself had I not been burdened with my silly organ-playing duties. That you so graciously undertook this dusty labour for me, your young and unworthy Choirmaster, says much for the strength of our long-standing friendship and the esteem in which you are held by me, and by my dear Mother, who by the way wishes to ask if you would please call her Angela in future and not that rather frosty and impersonal Mrs Acne (please?)

Yours with gratitude and admiration,

x......................................x

Barry Acne (Organist and Choirmaster)

Mum said if I don’t sign it I could move my bed and all my belongings into the shed. It would be blindingly obvious even to a woodlouse with an IQ of –273 that I didn’t write it (I mean, can you imagine a literate and well-educated professional male person such as I myself ever using the expression ‘really really’?), but Antony is vain and thrives on flattery and is probably even at this moment being patted on the head by a horde of admiring Flower Ladies.

I’m not sure I did the right thing, but I do have my own dignity to consider, and there are times when a man must stand up for what is right, even against his own mother. The prospect of another night on the floor of that shed was not pleasant of course, and I confess that I struggled greatly with my conscience, before I signed the wretched thing. Mum uttered a self-satisfied smirk and said she’d pop it in the postbox straight away.

There was no school today. It seems that 98.1% of the pupils, I mean students, have come out on strike because they have no confidence in their teachers, and most of the teachers have come out on strike because they didn’t like having to go back to work. Apparently the only teachers in the staff room today were Simon and Miss Smith and Mr Grudge. Garnham was standing outside the gates when I arrived, and he says he peeped through the staff room window at 8:54am and saw Mr Grudge drinking whisky and reading Shakespearean sonnets to Miss Smith. Garnham also says that he saw Simon sharpening a hammer and repeating ‘grrr, grrr, grrr’ to himself in a shrill falsetto, but the consensus is that Garnham is an untrustworthy witness. He is very short-sighted and has to wear corrective spectacles, so in all likelihood it wasn’t Shakespeare at all that Mr Grudge was reading. It could have been the Beano, or the Fifth Form timetable, for all Garnham knows. But Garnham swears he heard Mr Grudge say ‘How-do. Islay for you? Lumme! Can’t thou ease? ’, and then Simon picked Mr Grudge up by his collar and shook him about a bit before gathering Miss Smith unto himself in a protective manner and leading her forth, no doubt to some bosky dell designed by Nature for canoedling, or, if there was a sudden world shortage of bosky dells, the groundsman’s hut on the school cricket field.

But as I say Garnham has proved himself to be a most unreliable person in the past, as I know to my cost. He still has that James Bond book that he acquired from me by false pretences and now I do not believe a word he says.

Thursday 14 September - off the hook!

Thursday 14 September 7:00pm

Mum says that there is no longer any likelihood of the Civic Society’s pursuing any form of legal action against us, for lurking forgotten and unseen in a dusty pile of Novello anthems (Price 3d) was a document that has brought the church wardens and the faint-hearts of the PCC all back to the fold, tearing up their letters of resignation. The ‘ancient’ choirstalls were fakes! They were installed in 1896 at a cost of £73.1.11 (including polishing.) Mrs Ramsbotham is to send a photocopy and a snooty letter to the Civic Society, and is already rolling up her sleeves in joyous anticipation.

Thursday 14 September 2:30pm

A major upheaval at school today, and we were sent home at lunchtime so that the staff could hold their start-of-term meeting in the Red Lion to sort it all out. It seems that everybody in the Fifth Form but me has opted to take Psychology, Media Studies and Sociology at A-Level and the teachers have protested at the size of their potential classes. There are 237 for Media Studies alone! When Miss Darling (Media Studies) saw the list she fainted and Mr Grudge (English Lang & Lit) had to hold a burning feather under her nose until she revived, the school medicine cabinet being locked and Matron, who has the only key, still recovering in that home for victims of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder after the 3^rd Form girls locked her in the biology lab overnight with a lot of white mice on St David’s Day the year before last.

The whole Fifth Form has to assemble in Main Hall at 9:15 tomorrow morning to be addressed by the Headmaster, whom until today I had always assumed to be a figment of the Education Authority’s imagination, for nobody has ever been seen entering or exiting the luxurious penthouse suite on the top floor of our exclusive Parker-Morris-standard 1960s educational establishment.

It is all very exciting. Much, I imagine, as a PCC meeting must be.

I tried to see Simon to ask about my computer, but a sign on his door said ‘All Hope Abandon – This Means You’ so I went home and cooked myself some egg and bacon to keep me going until tea time, with a couple of sausages and a few tomatoes and some fried bread and then some healthy yoghurt (peach and raspberry) for dessert.

Do not know where mum is, so will now take opportunity to brush up on Raindrop Prelude and possibly read some Dostoevsky in preparation for tomorrow’s Assembly.

Wednesday 13 September 4:30pm

Simon issued the new timetables this morning. I asked if might have a quick word with him, because, pending the arrival of my corrected examination results, I saw that I was down for Remedial English, Remedial French and Remedial IT with the 4^th Form that I have just left. I protested that I hadn’t even taken French. Simon said he would sort it out. I am also down for General Science, which Simon says is to balance my education. Apparently Miss Smith – in her new capacity of Head of Science – has insisted that all pupils (she calls us Students) should have a nodding acquaintance with subjects which require more for scholastic advancement than an aptitude for placing ticks in little boxes and the ability to write one’s own name. “Do not underestimate Miss Smith”, Simon warned me. “She has a fine mind.” I had a really witty rejoinder on the tip of my tongue, but the dinner bell intervened.

Simon also mentioned, however, that Students in Remedial Classes are to be given priority in the distribution of refurbished laptop computers, and my name is at the top of the list!

It is good to see that my academic promise is at last being recognised.

Tuesday 12 September 10:30pm

I am writing this by the light of a torch under the bedclothes, and I must of necessity be brief because the batteries are low. Mum got home after I’d gone to bed, with Mrs Ramsbotham in tow, so I turned the light off and pretended to be asleep. Oh blow. That’sal .

Tuesday 12 September 11:00am

School resumes tomorrow, and still nothing in the post from the Examination Board. I have to make up my own lunch box this evening, because Gwen has called yet another emergency meeting of the PCC for 7:30. It seems that my saying Rabbits this month has not had the desired effect. Perhaps I said it too quietly, for on unpacking my satchel ready for the New Term I discovered adhering to dad’s Sinclair Spectrum a mouldy cream bun from the end-of-term celebrations. I washed the Spectrum thoroughly under the hot tap, though it is still a little sticky and discoloured, and I have sprayed the inside of the satchel with air freshener and put it in dad’s shed for an hour or two to recover.

Monday 11 September 1:30pm

What was it that that the famous Scottish poet Robert the Burns said about the best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men ganging aft agley? Mum could have kept it to herself, but Mrs Ramsbotham was in the library as well so it is probably now all round the village. The good news is that I didn’t have to pay any fine at all for Goldfinger. The bad news is that the reason I don’t have to pay is that I appear to be still using Junior Library tickets.

I am writing a stiff letter to the County Library Superintendent complaining about lax administrative procedures in our local branch, and asking why, if he and his councillors are so worried about moral turpitude among young people, they allow them to borrow such steamy novels as Goldfinger on junior library tickets.

I do not consider Mrs Ramsbotham to be a good influence upon my mother. She asked mum to remember her to ‘dear little Barry.’ If Raskolnikov were not a fictional character I would be inclined to write to him to inquire whether he undertakes contract jobs.

Monday 11 September 10:05am

A stroke of luck! Mum mentioned that she was popping into the library this morning, so I asked her, really casually, if she would mind taking a book back for me. She fell for it completely and put Goldfinger in her bag together with the complete works of some romantic novelist called Dale Spender. I shall no doubt have to reimburse her for the fine, but I will say that she can take it out of my Daily Mail cheque! Or should I say check – and mate, too, I believe.

Still nothing from the Examinations Board, and school resumes on Wednesday. I am sure that Simon will understand when I tell him that, much as I enjoy my sessions at the work bench with chisel and spokeshave, my stay in his class will be of very brief duration.

Sunday 10 September, 6:00pm

Service surprisingly uneventful: very few mistakes. Antony completed his tidying and sorting while I was marking up the next load of hymn sheets from Gwen’s master list, upon which it was a profound relief to me to find nothing with five flats and not a single instance of Amazing Grace. I am not entirely happy, though, about the two Bach settings for Advent – they are quite tricky for the fingers, so I will suggest to Gwen that even Antony cannot manage all four parts simultaneously, despite his Cathedral background. But I certainly approve of the Orlando Gibbons, which is in F major (only one flat) and very easy to play. And no Graham Kendrick! I didn’t manage to speak to Gwen after the service, for she was closeted in the clergy vestry with Antony. He seemed very excited that he has finished the tidying job, for he was even shriller than usual. Sometimes Antony is quite pathetic.

Sunday 10 September, 8:00am

Up with the lark and finished Goldfinger, despite Mum’s sonorous snoring. Picked up my Dostoevsky, then put it down again. Decided to have quick run-through of today’s hymns on the piano, then remembered the New Agreement, so pretended kitchen table was organ console. Removed two splinters with aid of tweezers from mum’s make-up box, or rather valise, for it is colossal. Took mum cup of tea 10 minutes ago, and now there is just time for my Sugar Puffs before I compose myself for divine service.

Saturday 9 September

It is still raining. Mum went out early to pick up Mrs Ramsbotham to do some shopping in town, and to have a ringside seat when somebody from Coronation Street switches on the Christmas lights. There is no point telling mum that we are still in the middle of Trinity (Trinity 14 next Sunday, to be precise), for the Flower Ladies are already talking excitedly about poinsettias and holly and the Flower Ladies’ Christmas Party. I am very surprised that the Flower Ladies are being allowed to have another Christmas Party after the embarrassing scenes last year when a Strippogram gorilla turned up with a seasonal cask of sweet sherry and a can of spray-on cream and the parish hall had to be closed for a week so that the ceiling could be cleaned.

But a busy day is in prospect, and I must knuckle to. The Raindrop Prelude needs a little more attention and I must race to finish Goldfinger, for another 11p rings up on the library till every 24 hours that it is in my care. Luckily the fridge is full, so I shall not starve.

Friday 8 September

A very offensive letter from the Library this morning, informing me that Goldfinger was due back on 22 August and that I now owe £1.54 in overdue charges! I wrote back immediately, pointing out a) that the loan period of three weeks is woefully inadequate if students of English literature are to give classic novels the scrupulous attention they deserve, and b) that there was a copy in Help the Aged only last week priced at 45p, and the Library would be doing council taxpayers a great service if they bought their books from charity shops in future and were thus able to reduce their punitive penalty charges. I could not find where mum has hidden the stamps, so I was forced to post the letter in the Library letter-box myself, before I had even had my breakfast.

It rained on the way back, and I got soaked.

Thursday 7 September

Still no letter from the Examination Board. At this rate I will end up in Simon’s class by default, which would not be an auspicious start to the academic year. Much as I like Simon, I am not convinced that an ability to chisel a neat mortise joint is enough to open the gates of Oxbridge, and I dread the prospect of having to settle for a B-List university such as Keele or Bolton Technical College.

Wednesday 6 September

Mum’s women’s group was cancelled last night at the last minute because someone’s baby had got the croup. Mum didn’t go to the group croup feely-in that was put on instead, despite the offer of free lessons in plumbing and bricklaying. Instead she spent the evening on the phone to Mrs Ramsbotham. Mum spends a fortune on phone calls to Mrs Ramsbotham, who only lives in the next street, whither mum could walk in two minutes and spend a happy evening of conversation without putting British Telecom to any inconvenience whatsoever. I think that mum thinks that the moment her back was turned I would fill the house with scantily clad maidens and woo them to distraction with my Raindrop Prelude, which I realise suddenly I have not practised for a fortnight.

But could not do any practice anyway because mum was still on the phone, so went to bed early on pretext of a headache, and read chapters 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13 of Goldfinger, then cheated and read chapter 18 out of sequence.

Put bookmark from Fountains Abbey in Chapter 18, not that I am likely to forget. Chapter 18 is almost as steamy as Rachel’s letter, and I hope I do not start thinking about Chapter 18 next Sunday when I am playing the organ, for such would be a most unseemly thing in Church.

Sunday 3 September

It all went off without a hitch. I played some really quiet introductory voluntaries so that I could enjoy listening to the sneezing that was going on in the vestry. I had had another brainwave in the night. Rather than tell Antony myself, I asked Priestess Gwen if she would, since I would probably be playing the organ when he arrived, and she fell for it. He was still sneezing when he slunk into his choirstall via the back corridor, rather than risk processing in in his unctuous way. He didn’t do a solo, not even his favourite Mendelssohn pigeon song, being too busy sneezing. I don’t think I played a single wrong note in any of the hymns, and my recessional voluntary was the one in E minor that starts fff and continues in much the same triumphant vein for three whole pages, and I don’t think I hit a single wrong note in that either, although it is hard to tell in such a noisy piece.

Mum is very suspicious, I can tell, but I cooked us a late breakfast, humming innocently as I did so, and the fried eggs, sausages, bacon and tinned tomatoes were perfect and absolutely delicious. Even mum admitted, albeit grudgingly, that it was quite nice.

Tra-la-la. What a jolly day.

Saturday 2 September 9:30pm

Mum has been co-opted onto the PCC, which now consists of her, Mrs Ramsbotham, the Treasurer, and our new priestess, Gwen, all other members having carried out their threat and resigned, together with the church wardens. Item 3 on the Agenda was the solicitor’s letter from the Civic Society, but nobody had brought a copy so it was not discussed.

Mum was in a bad mood when she got home, and perhaps I shouldn’t have asked her what they talked about instead, like for example knitting patterns and cake decoration, for she snapped at me: “No. We discussed the appalling state of the choir vestry. There are piles of music there with three inches of dust on them. Some of that stuff goes back to the year dot. You are Organist and Choirmaster. It is your job to get it sorted and tidied, for the Flower Ladies are complaining that they have nowhere to stack their Oasis.”

I did not know that my vestry was being used for storage of recordings of the sort of profane popular music favoured by Flower Ladies, and clearly it must be put a stop to. But I have conceived a brilliant plan, worthy of 007, even of M. Antony suffers from asthma and hay fever, and he probably expects to sing solos tomorrow. I will assert my authority and put him to work tidying the vestry! Even though Mum thinks the sun shines out of his ears she can hardly make a fuss – I will simply say that Antony’s long experience of choral music in the Cathedral Choir (before he was sacked) fits him perfectly for such an important task. It shouldn’t be hard to convince mum - I have almost convinced myself, to the extent that I am actually feeling quite noble.

Saturday 2 September 10:30am

Mrs Ramsbotham phoned mum very early this morning. There is an emergency PCC meeting tonight because the Civic Society have carried out their threat to take legal action about the choirstalls, and one of the church wardens has received a letter from their solicitor. Most of the PCC members want to resign in case it will cost them money, and Mrs Ramsbotham said that she needs mum by her side for moral support.

I have still not had an apology and my corrected grades from the Examination Board. They, like all public officials, are slipshod in their methods, being crazed with power and fat salary cheques. They evidently do not have to contend in their professional lives with hymns with five flats and Antony.

Friday 1 September 9:30pm

Rabbits! I remembered to say it when I woke up to ensure good fortune in the coming month.

Mum says I am suffering from lassitude and ennui because my life has become purposeless, and she will be jolly glad when I go back to school. Mum always thinks she knows best, but all that is wrong with me is that I am bored. It was, I now think, a mistake to immerse myself in the pessimism of Russian novelists when I could in my imagination be fighting alligators in the Everglades with my hero, James Bond. What, I wonder, is a dry martini? It is the tipple of choice for 007. Perhaps he prefers a dry drink to a wet one lest yet another assassination attempt on his person cause him to spill it down his evening jacket, or tuxedo. I suspect I will soon find out, for when I asked mum she promised me one. “I’ll give you dry martini”, she said. “For heaven’s sake, go to bed and read your silly gung-ho books while I watch some improving programmes on the television.”

Thursday 31 August 5:15pm

Saved! Mum had completely forgotten that I was cooking today and has just come home with a large consignment of fish and chips. More later. More diary, that is, not more fish and chips. But I do wish mum would not forget things so readily, such as, for example, that I was supposed to be cooking tonight.

Thursday 31 August 2:35pm

Being a church organist by profession, and therefore dwelling in lofty spheres much of the time, I was unaware that in our village most shops celebrate Early Closing Day on a Thursday. Everything is ready for tonight’s meal apart from the ingredients. Only the Co-Op was open, and they do not sell fish unless it is in a tin. The queue of people who had also forgotten that it was early closing day stretched up the street to the Methodist chapel, and by the time it was my turn to be served all that was left on the shelves was a bag of peanuts and a tin of chopped tomatoes (with herbs and garlic), and a little old lady beat me to the peanuts by viciously prodding me with her umbrella. Even the great Rick Stein does not offer any useful recipes requiring solely a tin of chopped tomatoes (with herbs and garlic), a serious oversight on his part considering how much his books cost.

Thursday 31 August 1:00pm

Spent an instructive morning with Rick Stein and a bowl of increasingly soggy cornflakes, and the list of ingredients for this evening’s meal is complete. I am really looking forward to it. Sometimes I think I am not fair to my mum, who has her own life to lead as I have mine. But I will, by means of a wonderful repast, show her by signs that I am a most devoted, and forgiving, son. And now for the shopping expedition!

Thursday 31 August 8:00am

Mum has given me some money to buy food, and I have promised to cook her a healthy meal this evening. I borrowed a very good book yesterday by a man called Rick Stein. It is called “English Seafood Cookery.” There is a good fishmonger in the village who is bound to have some nice whiting, and I must remember to ask him for half a pound of bechamels for the sauce.

Wednesday 30 August 4:00pm

Mum and I have come to an agreement. In return for not doing my piano practice before 10am I will be fed. And I am to share the cooking (which I must say is a profound relief, especially as regards the humble egg, which it is impossible to boil properly in two minutes unless it was laid by a pullet with dwarfism.) I am now reading mum’s only cookery book – “One-minute Family Meals for Busy Housewives” – and I shall have to hide it. Much of its advice is directed at the safe removal of plastic film and the hygienic disposal of polystyrene trays. Mum must spend a fortune on ready meals in boxes, and they are still served either cold or burnt.

I shall borrow a proper cookery book from the library and learn the culinary arts in full. I have over a week to master them before school resumes. I will ask the librarian if they have a book on cooking for church organists lurking among the car repair manuals and romantic novels. If, that is, the library still bothers to have books at all.

Boiled myself one of the eggs I was sent out to purchase when mum finally inched her way gingerly downstairs at 9:30am. Delicious, and done to perfection in three and three quarter minutes exactly.

Wednesday 30 August 6:30am

I couldn’t sleep because mum has been snoring all night, and even though I have thick wallpaper her snores echoed and re-echoed enough to wake the departed. She got home late and she brought Mrs Ramsbotham and a bottle of sherry now lying empty upon the kitchen table (the bottle, that is, not Mrs Ramsbotham, who staggered home at 1:30 am, waking the entire street with her untuneful rendition of Amazing Grace.)

Although Mrs Ramsbotham is almost certainly not a pawnbroker by trade, I am beginning to feel a certain sympathy for Raskolnikov.

Also there is no food in the fridge again, and I am starving. I have found an old fruit gum in the pocket of my mac, and though it is a little furry I am sure it will wash off.

I do not feel like reading. I am behind with my piano practice, so I will attack the Raindrop Prelude again.

Tuesday 29 August

I would have resigned on the spot, but there is such a thing as Duty, and also I need the money. Last Sunday was awful. I am not speaking to mum, because I know she deliberately forgot to mention that the priest who addressed her women’s group was actually a priestess. And it was mum who asked Antony why he didn’t join the choir when the smarmy screecher brought her umbrella back, the one I had left outside the chip shop. Antony is such a horrible creep. No wonder he was sacked from the cathedral choir.

Also this priestess turns out to be a feminist as well, and she gave this long sermon about Women’s Rights. Two of the flower ladies walked out because they read the Daily Mail and like me do not believe in all this Women’s Rights rubbish, but mum and Mrs Ramsbotham were nodding and smirking all the time, and instead of saying ‘Amen’ at the end they shouted ‘Hooray!’, which was very embarrassing and not at all right in Church. I hadn’t realised that hormones were catching.

I was so upset that I made lots of mistakes, and every time I made a mistake Antony sniggered, which made it worse.

Mind you, he looked a proper plonker sitting in the choir stalls all by himself, and you should have seen the way he processed and recessed, as though he was on wheels. He probably learned that in the cathedral when he should have been learning to sing.

I am labouring on with my Dostoevsky in case Raskolnikov branches out from murdering little old lady pawnbrokers and turns his attention to smug ex-cathedral trebles. I might even pick up a few hints. I am going to start on p8 tonight while mum is out at Women’s Group crowing her head off with all her cronies.

Sunday 27 August

The lady who was talking to the proper vicar last week was there again, and although I was very busy at my Organ Console, sorting out hymns, she interrupted me. “Hello Barry”, she said, and held out her hand. “I’m Gwen.” Quickly observing that she was wearing a dog-collar and a cassock I asked her if she needed directions to the URC chapel just up the road. There was a moment’s silence. Then:

“No, Barry”, she said. “I’m Gwen. I’m your new Vicar. And I have someone who would like to join the choir.”

“Hello, Barry”, said Antony.

Saturday 26 August

Waited in all day for telly man, filling time with scales & arpeggios on the piano until fingers ached. Lunch – baked beans (no bread, and could not risk quick visit to Spar in case telly man arrived.) Read p7 of Dostoevsky, or most of it. Looked at Radio Times. Read about interesting film on ITV3 concerning young organist who is feared lost in Amazonian jungle but it turns out he has been teaching the indigenous population how to convert their blowpipes into flutes in order to play Poulenc, who is the young organist’s favourite composer. Film ends sadly when entire cast, as well as young organist, are boiled up and eaten by primitive tribe from across the river whose blowpipes still work perfectly. Film on from 2:30pm - 4:30pm. Telly man arrived 4:31pm and within seconds telly was working again. “Looks like some idiot left it on AV.” I think I must have blushed a little, for he then said “£10 for call-out and wasting my time. Call it £20 and I’ll bill your Mum for a faulty transistor.”

It is blackmail, but I felt obliged to agree because Mum has now missed last repeat of Coronation Street.

Friday 25 August

Apparently our doorbell isn’t working. The telly man phoned at 4pm to say he’d tried three times to gain access to our property, but there was no reply. He will come again tomorrow. Mum phoned the man who fitted the doorbell. He is too busy to visit just yet because the storm damaged 1,319 doorbells in his area and he is fully occupied until next January. Mum says I must therefore stay in all day tomorrow and look out for the telly man. If he is early she could just catch the repeat of Coronation Street in ITV3. If not she will never be able to pick up the plot again.

I tried to explain to her that you can miss a year of Coronation Street and still pick up the plot in two nanoseconds but to no avail.

“Just like your father”, she snapped, and went off to meet Mrs Ramsbotham, no doubt for a healthy gossip and moan.

Had brilliant idea while on the toilet. Put new battery in door bell! Door bell now working perfectly. Thought of sending large bill to Mum, as electricians always do, but decided against it on grounds of health and safety.

Thursday 24 August

I had a terrible night with nightmares. The thunder kept waking me up and the lightning was awful. At 2am I put my head under the pillow and tried to think of Rachel, but just when it got interesting there would be more thunder so I gave up in the end and tried counting sheep. Unfortunately, just as I was dropping off, sheep Nos 24, 145 and 278 got hit by lightning and burst into flames, uttering anguished cries. And when I did finally drop off, at about 4am, it was to dream about a procession of demonstrating ewes invading my church during the Offertory hymn and holding up placards demanding Safe Grazing for All. It was horrible. It has put me off lamb chops for life.

But every cloud has a silver lining. The BT man was in our street this morning repairing things. Apparently everybody’s phone was out of action last night because of the thunderstorm. Mum has blamed the lightning for damaging our telly as well, and has summoned an Engineer.

But the Sinclair Spectrum is well hidden. Just in case.

Wednesday 23 August

I suddenly remembered that Dad’s Sinclair Spectrum was still in my school satchel. So while Mum was at the Library for her Women’s Group I connected it up to the new television and the telephone line and switched on.

But the television has now stopped working and the phone is dead so I was unable to test my new e-mail address. I have disconnected everything and put the Spectrum back in my satchel in case Mum blames me as she usually does when something goes wrong. It is in my experience better to be safe than sorry.

I hope Mum took her umbrella to the Library, for it is raining cats and dogs outside, and I am sure I just heard a peal of thunder.

Have decided to have an early night and continue with either Dostoevsky or Goldfinger until I hear Mum come home, when I will turn off my light and pretend to be asleep.

Tuesday 22 August

A very mixed morning – I had two letters! One was from the Examination Board, confirming receipt of mine of the 16^th August ult, and one was from school, informing me that despite my examination results I have been accepted into the Fifth Year and I will be in Simon’s form, 5C. Much as I like Simon, I am sure he will not mind when I am moved back into the Oxford-Cambridge stream once the Examination Board admit their mistake with my GCSE markings. I will, nevertheless, continue with my Woodwork and Cabinet-Making, for Mum’s table-lamp is nowhere near finished, nor is her set of napkin rings in turned beechwood.

And it seems that I now have an e-mail address! It is

barry.acneSOCRATESgmail.com.

Unfortunately I do not yet have a computer.

Unless...

Monday 21 August

Thank Heaven. Mum seems to have got over her latest attack of Hormones and was almost civil at breakfast time (toast - always a safe option.)

She says she has my cheque in safe keeping, which is a relief in a way, although my cash-flow problem still requires urgent attention if I am to continue my wooing of Rachel. I imagine restaurants and even fish-and-chip shops are reluctant to accept IOUs, and I can hardly ask Mum to lend me some money or she would want to know why.

She also said that I played the hymns very nicely yesterday, but I suspect that is because her musical tastes have been influenced by Coronation Street and Songs of Praise on the telly where there is not much Mozart or Haydn (Mozart being my particular favourite composer, especially his easier pieces.)

Apparently there was an article in yesterday’s Sunday Times by the President of the Royal Institute of British Architects, Mr Sunand Prasad*, in which he praised our church for its noble contribution to the maintenance of the national architectural heritage by having conservation work done on our ancient choirstalls! Mum showed me a cutting that Mrs Ramsbotham had given her. Mrs Ramsbotham says that she happens to know that Mr Prasad and our Suffragan Bishop are good friends and used to play cricket together. What a small world it is! And I didn’t know about this conservation work, although I am nominally Choirmaster as well as Organist. The last time I saw the old choirstalls they’d been moved out of the Vestry and were leaning against the wall in the boilerhouse, which is where the cat goes to do its business. The new ones do not really look right in our Chancel, and they do not provide any additional seating whatsoever unless our future choir is composed entirely of very thin people. But since the choir at present numbers 0 persons, that future may be a long way off.

*probably a Yorkshire name, or Welsh

Sunday 20 August 12:30pm

Just made it to church in time, having been awakened by the sound of Mum slamming the front door and revving up the car preparatory to collecting Mrs Ramsbotham. Cannot understand Mum lately. This ruse has always worked before.

Hymns were awful. Amazing Grace, The Old Rugged Cross, and Morning Has Broken. Considering some of the music we Professional Organists have to play, organs should I believe be provided with sick-bags, like Aeroplanes are. And anyway Jerusalem is not a hymn at all, but a semi-mystical nationalistic rant commissioned by the Women’s Institute. We did William Blake last term in English and that is what Mr Grudge says, and I am inclined to agree with him, for is very difficult to play, even in the simple version that I use.

Nobody spoke to me after the service. One man muttered “Judas” as he passed, and I replied “No, I'm Barry”. He must be new, if he does not recognise me. I wonder if he was the priest who addressed Mum’s Women’s Group. He said he would attend one or two of our services. The difficulty with being an Organist is that you only see the congregation through your rear-view mirror and they only see the back of your head. It is a very lonely occupation.

Mum and the Vicar and Mrs Ramsbotham were in a huddle in the vestry afterwards with the lady the Vicar was talking to last week. They are probably trying to persuade her to Gift-Aid her collection money and join the Flower Ladies. She will undoubtedly be on the PCC next, as all newcomers to our church seem to be, even the new postman who had only popped in to ask for directions to the Methodists’ temple down the road. Mrs Ramsbotham says that it is fortunate that everybody on the PCC doesn’t come to church most Sundays, or we would need a lot more seating!

Sunday 20 August, 7:05am

I need to talk to Mum to ask her where the Daily Mail cheque is. I woke at 7am with a brilliant idea. I will pretend to be asleep so that Mum will have to wake me when it is time for me to go to church. She will have to speak to me then.

Saturday 19 August, 9:00pm

Have searched high and low, but cannot find the Daily Mail cheque. Would ask Mum if she’s seen it, but she is still not talking to me.

Had an egg for my supper. I must be emotionally distraught, for it was runny, even though I cooked it myself. The culinary arts are more difficult than at first sight they might appear.

Saturday 19 August, 6:30pm

My plans for a slap-up meal for darling Rachel are in tatters. After Clive had totted up my earnings and deducted his expenses I left the shop for the last time, better off to the tune of 47p. Even our local chip shop, good value as it is, could hardly be expected to provide a lavish romantic meal for two young lovers for 47p. It would be at least two pounds, and I still owe the Treasurer. My only hope now is the Daily Mail cheque.

Saturday 19 August, 11:00am

As well as having a bad-tempered mother to contend with, I now have an Irascible Employer. 143 Bywater have cancelled their papers, and Clive says it is all my fault, 143 being a significant contributor to his pension fund because they never check their bills. When I have completed my afternoon round, Clive said, I need never darken the doors of his newsagents again, unless it is to purchase something. I had half a mind not to turn up this afternoon and let Clive sort out the ensuing chaos, but I have been taught always to take the Christian line of forbearance and forgiveness, and also I haven’t been paid yet.

Newsagenting is clearly a lucrative Profession, for as well as the battered old Renault that Clive drives round the village in, I know that he has a shiny Porsche in the garage behind the shop, because I saw it once when I had to use the outside loo and happened accidentally to stretch up to peer through the garage window.

Friday 18 August, 6:00 pm

It wasn’t my fault! I tried to explain to Mum that the Daily Mail man was very pleasant and very interested in my Career, but she called me a fool and an idiot. She said I had caused a lot of trouble and she might even be forced to resign from her Women’s Group. I sincerely hope things do not go that far, for I think learning to make jam and quilts would do much to help Mum get over Dad’s* running away. And her culinary skills still require some attention, though there was no egg this morning, runny or otherwise.

I couldn’t see anything wrong with the article, which was quite flattering about me, even though I don’t remember saying that living in our village was like living in a time-warp.

And comparing us to Dibley was most unfair. Dibley, after all, has a Lady Vicar, which in my Church we all agree is quite wrong.

*the ubiquitous Gerund again!

Thursday 17 August

Daily Mail cheque for £25 arrived! Unfortunately it is made out to B. Huckbolt, but I am sure my bank will understand. I am in need of funds, for I have formulated a plan – I will drop a note through the letter-box at 143 Bywater inviting Rachel out for a meal!

I know it will cost me several pounds which I can ill afford, but she is worth the investment. I do not wish to embarrass darling Rachel by ostentatious displays of wealth at this early stage in our blossoming relationship, so it is fortuitous that our local chip shop appears to offer an eat-in menu which is not overpriced.

Paper round uneventful, although I had not realised before that so many people retain small but vicious Jack Russell Terriers to lurk beneath domestic letter boxes and yap and leap alarmingly, no doubt in the hope of breakfasting upon an inadvertent finger. We do not keep pet animals in our house. Mum says pets are unhygienic and give you asthma when they are not biting your leg off.

Wednesday 16 August

Evidently there has been a grave mistake, for I have received someone else’s GCSE results:

IT 0% – Fail.

English 32% - Fail.

Woodwork 77% - merit.

I have written a sharp letter to the Examinations Board asking them to check their bureaucratic procedures. I said I could understand how easy it was to make mistakes especially at this time of year when the sun is shining and everybody would rather be in Tenerife than matching exam results to names in a list, but for some people exam results were very important indeed such as for example school pupils. I think my letter struck exactly the right balance between politeness and irony, and I imagine it will amuse whoever it is that will immediately instigate a thorough inquiry. I think, on balance, that I had nothing to lose by discreetly mentioning that I have Friends in the Press.

Still nothing in the Daily Mail. I am beginning to feel like a victim, much as Raskolnikov must have felt. I have abandoned Goldfinger as being much too lightweight and hedonistic, but I am deriving much comfort from Dostoevsky. Do they have organs in monasteries? I much check when I next visit the library.

Sunday 13 August

My life is falling in ruins about me. Mrs Ramsbotham phoned Mum this morning while I was at my ablutions. My church is being sued by the Civic Society because of those old choirstalls, and the only way the PCC can raise the funds to pay for a possibly lengthy lawsuit is to sell off the church organ. It is all the Treasurer’s doing, I see it all now. She does not like me because my musical tastes do not accord with hers, and by selling off the organ she will save on my stipend and probably cajole some simple-minded guitarist into playing Amazing Grace or The Old Rugged Cross every Sunday unto Eternity.

I shall be redundant, with no other Profession to fall back on, save that of Paperboy, which offers little chance of progression, unless it be to own my own personal Newsagents. I cannot see what the future holds for me.

How I managed to get through the service I do not know. I made hundreds of mistakes though mostly it was the hymns’ fault for having too many sharps and flats.

Everything now depends on the results of my GCSEs, which are due on Wednesday.

I confided my worries to my old Vicar. He nodded wisely, pondered for several minutes, then proffered his advice: “Trust in the Lord, and all will be well.” It’s easy for him to say. But it seems that The Lord only looks after his own, for I have so far seen no sign of eg Antony’s* getting a good hard kick up his bottom.

It is an awful thought, but what if The Lord, like the Treasurer, actually prefers the guitar to the Church Organ?

*Despite my woes I still remember the Gerund and its correct employment!

Saturday 12 August

Could not face diary yesterday. Yesterday worst day of my life so far, for foll. reasons:

1) was delivering Daily Mirror at 141 Bywater Street when figure emerged from 143, gracefully mounted bicycle, and pedalled forth. I was fortuitously concealed beneath a holly bush so Rachel did not see me. For indeed it was she.

2) Mum said very polite boy returned umbrella, saying he recognised it as Mum’s when he saw it discarded outside the chip shop on his way to church for private prayer, which had taken longer than he thought. “And by the way,” said Mum nastily, “Antony wishes to be remembered to you.”

3) was docked £2.50 from salary to pay for replacement copies of newspapers for 18 people who had objected to having wads of papier maché squeezed through their letter boxes on my first day.

4) received demand for refund of £6 overpayment of Stipend from Treasurer.

Could not even face session with Goldfinger.

Horrible day. It can only get better from now on.

Thursday 10 August

The day dawned bright. No rain therefore no need for umbrella. Dropped note off with the Daily Telegraph at 143 Bywater Street, with a copy of the solicitor leaflet for good measure. No sign of bicycle, so did not suffer accidental injury. Clipped five minutes off yesterday’s delivery time.

Did afternoon round also in record time. Home in good time for tea (spag bol – my favourite) then promised myself a long session with Goldfinger after diary duty.

Wednesday 9 August

Raining again. Mum asked me where the umbrella was. I had to think quickly, so I said I’d left it in the safe keeping of Clive, and Mum seemed satisfied.

It might have been better to tell Mum the truth, for when I went to retrieve it from outside the chip shop it was, to my surprise and consternation, no longer there. A man in a black mac who was handing out leaflets commiserated with me, and suggested I inquire at the Police Station. Then he asked me if I’d had any other accidents recently. He seemed disappointed when I said that I hadn’t, not wishing to get Mum into further trouble by mentioning the trifling matter of my scalded wrists. He explained that all sorts of accidents befell people, especially paper boys, that were not their fault, and he worked for a company of solicitors that had great experience of finding people to blame so that victims of accidents, whether or not they were paper boys, could obtain Financial Redress.

What a Good Samaritan! With such a public-spirited attitude it is no wonder that he was out and about so early to do his soliciting. If there were more people like him, I thought to myself, then people would think twice about appropriating eg other people’s umbrellas for their own selfish ends. So I took some of his leaflets to show to Mum and other interested Parties.

Completed my morning round in record time, with no complaints, though this time it was I who nearly tripped up over that carelessly parked bicycle outside the porch of No 143 Bywater Street. I will drop a note through with tomorrow’s paper suggesting that more thoughtful parking of road vehicles in people’s drives would greatly reduce the number of incapacitated news media delivery executives forced to sue for loss of earnings.

Tuesday 8 August

Pouring with rain again. Mum lent me her umbrella, but it proved impossible to manage an umbrella and a bag containing three hundredweight of newspapers and still have a hand or two left to deliver a newspaper with, so I left the umbrella outside the chip shop and braved the elements.

No sign of the lady with orange hair. No sign of the churlish man at 143 Bywater Street.

All in all a successful morning. Got home soaked but ravenous. Mum made perfect egg and bacon for me. Even the tea was drinkable (Earl Grey, Mum said. It is now her favourite tea, apart from Church tea. It smelt of flowers, but at least it was hot and sweet. Obviously Mum is learning something at her Women’s Group.)

Monday 7 August

I have been engaged, on a marginally increased salary, to deliver afternoon papers as well as morning ones! It is a much less complex task, for there is only one afternoon newspaper, the Tribune. I am becoming familiar with my route, or “round”, and am learning to be careful when delivering to those houses with fierce Jack Russell dogs or ladies with orange hair (she is still waiting for the Police to arrive, poor old dear!) or No 143 Bywater Street. I asked the newsagent (who I discover is named Clive) if I could forgo the morning round in favour of the afternoon one, but, if I can sum up his lengthy expostulations, “No you can’t”, he said.

Saturday 6 August

I do not think I made any mistakes in my organ playing this morning! Not a single one! The hymns were all easy and not very fast and I chose a simple voluntary by Mendelssohn to finish with, because my left shoulder is still hurting a little, and the LH of the Mendelssohn only requires three notes (D, G and A.)

I kept peeping in my Rear View Mirror to see if Mum’s other Priest was present in the congregation, but I could not see him. Perhaps he changed his mind or got up too late to come. Or perhaps he did not wear his dog-collar so as to be incognito while making copious notes in his Diocesan Filofax, eg “Went to that woman’s church this morning to check on the flowers and the quality of the tea and biscuits. Excellent organ playing by some young fellow. Flowers vg. Tea far too strong. NB must mention art of tea-making in future Addresses to Women’s Groups.”

And the Suffragan Bishop was here again! That is two Sundays on the run. It is possible that he is here to check up on my organ playing abilities before approving the rise in my stipend, for the Treasurer said after the service that there had been a mistake and I had been overpaid this month. But she said not to worry. If my contract was signed and the way ahead was clear she would do what was necessary to balance the books. The Treasurer is clearly not a Musician, for she asked me if, to be on the safe side, I played the guitar or if I knew of any good guitarists in our parish! No doubt she would be in her element singing Amazing Grace with Cliff Richard and the Shadows accompanying her!

I did not have a chance to speak to my old Vicar, for after the service he was in the vestry talking to the Suffragan Bishop and a lady.

The choirstalls are an awful mess! Work seems to have been stopped on the new ones, and the old ones are in pieces in the Choir Vestry. How fortunate it is that we do not actually have a choir at present, for there would be nowhere for them to robe, apart that is from the lavatory which would not be very pleasant for choir people trying to get in the right mood for a service because it always smells a little and nobody can open the window, not the church wardens or even the Vicar.

Saturday 5 August

The bag was heavier even than yesterday, if that were possible. I dread to think how many Equatorial Forests must be lost to Mankind each year so that Mankind can learn the results of football matches in faraway places.

The lady with the Chinese Pagoda has orange hair! She was outside her house still waiting for the police to turn up when I delivered her Daily Express. She seemed very pleasant, despite being quite old (at least 40, I would say) but she warned me to be on my guard because of suspicious characters lurking about.

The man at 143 Bywater Street was also outside, waiting for his Daily Telegraph. “Learnt to read, have you?”, was all he said, snatching his very heavy newspaper from my grasp. What an unpleasant and bullying person he is! I was delighted when in his haste to return to his snug dwelling to peruse his Daily Telegraph he nearly fell over the bicycle parked by the side of his porch.

But I completed my round with no mistakes, and although I suspect that my left shoulder will always be an inch or two lower than my right I was relieved that there were no complaints.

Even the newsagent was pleasant to me. “Sorry you can’t do tomorrow, Brian”, he said, “what with Sunday being double time an’ all. But you have made a good start.”

Double time? It is already a race to get to my organ loft in time for the service. If my paper round took twice as long I would have to rise at 4am in the morning to complete it in time!

Although I am very tired from rising so early and from the physically demanding requirements of my Holiday Job I will now do some practice to put me in the right frame of mind for Divine Service tomorrow. And then I will resume my reading of Goldfinger.

Friday 4 August

I have been told that my job is to deliver newspapers, not to read them! The lady at No 9 Nelson Mandela Gardens rang the police to say that there was a suspicious character lurking beneath her Chinese Pagoda and then she rang my Employers to warn all paperboys to be on the lookout.

Thursday 3 August

First the good news. My pay cheque from church came this morning. It was £10! I cannot believe my good fortune. I celebrated by playing the Trumpet Voluntary on the piano until Mum got up to remind me that I was supposed to be at the newsagents by 6:45am.

And now the bad news. The job is awful! I had to hang around with some really weedy young boys until the numbers had been put on the papers and we were allowed out. My bag was very heavy and it hurt my shoulder and it started raining just as I left the shop. The bags have a big flap to cover the papers with but nothing is provided to cover the paperboys with so I was very soon soaked.

I have four streets to do on my round. Two are easy because they are quite short and everybody takes The Sun anyway, being Council House Tenants, but the other two are quite long. I am supposed to walk up one side and then back down the other, but some of my Customers expect to be served out of turn and I got a bit confused hopping over the road all the time, and then another customer chased me and said their paper was the Telegraph not the Mirror and was I a complete idiot or just illiterate. I will remember him in future. He is so surly that he is probably a teacher by trade. I have made a mental note of his address – 143 Bywater Street.

And then, when I got back to the newsagents, soaked to the skin, I was given a list. It was of people who had telephoned to say that they had had the wrong paper delivered and I was told to go back and put matters right. There were 18 of them! It took an hour, and when I had finally finished – at 9:10am - I thought of asking if I would be paid overtime for the extra work, but I decided against it because the newsagent was in a very bad temper, no doubt because of the early hour at which he has to rise.

Nothing yet in the Daily Mail. I sneaked a look while sheltering under the Chinese Pagoda at No 9 Nelson Mandela Gardens, which is one of my council house streets.

Wednesday 2 August

I won’t need to go to the library to check the Daily Mail after all. I shall be able to read it on my paper round. Yes, my dear mother has fixed me up with a holiday job. I protested, of course, because I had other plans, but under cross-examination I couldn’t think quickly enough to tell Mum what they might have been.

I shall have to tell them I can’t do Sundays, of course, because of my Professional duties. But looking on the bright side, the extra money will certainly come in handy before my enhanced stipend starts rolling in.

The priest who gave the Women’s Group a talk last night is coming to church on Sunday to sit in on our service. Knowing our old Vicar, he’ll probably get roped in to help out!