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.