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!