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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
A very mixed morning – I had two letters! One was from the Examination Board, confirming receipt of mine of the 16th 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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.)
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
A quiet day. I remembered to say Rabbits when I awoke, to avert ill fortune in the new month and to consolidate yesterday’s Good Fortune. I did some piano practice then I went to the library and borrowed another James Bond book. I like Shakespeare enormously, also Dostoyevsky, but James Bond is much better for relaxing reading purposes from my particular point of view. James, or 007 as he is sometimes known, not only has a licence to kill, but is also very suave. Fortunately he is a fictional character – I certainly would not wish him and Rachel to become acquainted! Although I suspect that he would get on very well with Miss Smith, who is much more his type.
Mum is out again tonight at her Women’s Group. I will spend the evening working on A Sonnet for Rachel or reading Goldfinger, or possibly both.
I am sure the Women’s Group choose Tuesday for their meetings because it is the only night that Coronation Street is not on so there is a vacuum to be filled.
They have a speaker tonight, Mum says. A priest is going to talk about the role of women in the CofE. Mum will enjoy that – no doubt it will be all about doing the flowers and the best polish to use on ancient woodwork. Which reminds me – I must check the Daily Mail in the library every day until the piece about me appears. I haven’t told Mum – I want it to be a surprise.
The phone kept ringing all morning and I had to interrupt my piano practice to answer it, which was most irritating. I am learning the Raindrop Prelude, which is a Romantic piece and therefore very moody, and I would like to perfect it so that I can play it at Rachel when she comes round to meet Mum as surely she must, for we are practically engaged.
First it was Mrs Ramsbotham, then it was the reporter lady from the local paper, then it was someone who said he was from the Daily Mail. I said Mum was still in bed, but he didn’t mind when I said I was her son also Organist and Choirmaster in our local church. He was very interested when I told him I was only 15, and he said that the Daily Mail was very interested in Child Progenies, and would I mind answering a few questions as background in case his Features Editor wanted him to do a piece about me! He asked me a lot of questions about Ken and Mrs Ramsbotham and the PCC and the new choirstalls, and he was really friendly. And just imagine! Me in a national newspaper! I hope Rachel’s family read the Daily Mail. I can just imagine Rachel’s Dad at the breakfast table, saying “Good heavens, daughter – isn’t this the young fellow who wishes to woo you? We must invite him round for tea forthwith and give our tacit consent to your eventual union.”
The Daily Mail man said he couldn’t promise anything, of course, because it wasn’t up to him, but in the meantime he would arrange for the paper to send me a cheque for £25 as a thank-you for my time and trouble!
I think today was lucky because I had remembered that I have to say rabbits as soon as I wake tomorrow.
