Unholy alliances
I spend the weekend in the Lake District at a christening in a Catholic church. Enough said, really, but for those of you who require more details of my Saturday trials and tribulations...
11.30am: I am kneeling on the floor ironing my dress (scarlet - an homage to the cardinals). My mother walks in.
Mum: You're not very good at that, are you? Would you like me to do it for you?
Me: No, no. You don't have to do that.
Mum: Let me help. I want to.
Me: Really, it's fine. I mean, it's not like you're my MOTHER or anything.
Mum: What do you mean? Yes I am.
Me: (recovering quickly from moment of horror at confusing mother with girlfriend). Oh. Hmm. Sorry.
1pm: I walk into the church. I am the only woman under forty without a child.
1.30pm: The priest is telling a story about seeing a lamp-post with recording tape wrapped around it which, "as you know, is a sure sign of evil and witchcraft." I sneak a piece of nicotine gum into my mouth but suspect that it is against church etiquette to chew, so suck on it surreptitiously instead. After 5 minutes my tongue has gone numb and I am starting to dribble. The priest is still going on about the devil.
3pm: I stand with a group of old school friends for photographs.
Photographer: Now, if you girls could all stand in a line and hold the babies up for the camera? Lady on the end there in the red dress? Oh. Well. Never mind. You can just hold up, uh, your glass.
6pm: I have a conversation with Mrs Turner, aged about 103, married to the curate for sixty years until he died two months ago. Since then she has given up church and spends her Sundays in the pub instead. She has a very large bosom and likes hunting. Like her hounds, she barks rather than speaks. We are both slightly tipsy.
Mrs T: Lovely to see you! Fancy a couple of fingers?
Me: ?!
Mrs T: Large one, Barbara! I'll have the same again.
Mrs T: Are you here for the christening?
Me: Er, yes.
Mrs T: You haven't any of your own, of course. You're far too clever for that sort of nonsense. Good for you.
Me: I was so sorry to hear about your husband.
Mrs T knocks back two fingers of whisky, beckons me forward and says, confidentially, 'You know, my dear, Hugh and I were always, well, only very LOOSELY affiliated.'
She gives my bottom a lingering pat. My cheeks turn the colour of my dress.
11.30am: I am kneeling on the floor ironing my dress (scarlet - an homage to the cardinals). My mother walks in.
Mum: You're not very good at that, are you? Would you like me to do it for you?
Me: No, no. You don't have to do that.
Mum: Let me help. I want to.
Me: Really, it's fine. I mean, it's not like you're my MOTHER or anything.
Mum: What do you mean? Yes I am.
Me: (recovering quickly from moment of horror at confusing mother with girlfriend). Oh. Hmm. Sorry.
1pm: I walk into the church. I am the only woman under forty without a child.
1.30pm: The priest is telling a story about seeing a lamp-post with recording tape wrapped around it which, "as you know, is a sure sign of evil and witchcraft." I sneak a piece of nicotine gum into my mouth but suspect that it is against church etiquette to chew, so suck on it surreptitiously instead. After 5 minutes my tongue has gone numb and I am starting to dribble. The priest is still going on about the devil.
3pm: I stand with a group of old school friends for photographs.
Photographer: Now, if you girls could all stand in a line and hold the babies up for the camera? Lady on the end there in the red dress? Oh. Well. Never mind. You can just hold up, uh, your glass.
6pm: I have a conversation with Mrs Turner, aged about 103, married to the curate for sixty years until he died two months ago. Since then she has given up church and spends her Sundays in the pub instead. She has a very large bosom and likes hunting. Like her hounds, she barks rather than speaks. We are both slightly tipsy.
Mrs T: Lovely to see you! Fancy a couple of fingers?
Me: ?!
Mrs T: Large one, Barbara! I'll have the same again.
Mrs T: Are you here for the christening?
Me: Er, yes.
Mrs T: You haven't any of your own, of course. You're far too clever for that sort of nonsense. Good for you.
Me: I was so sorry to hear about your husband.
Mrs T knocks back two fingers of whisky, beckons me forward and says, confidentially, 'You know, my dear, Hugh and I were always, well, only very LOOSELY affiliated.'
She gives my bottom a lingering pat. My cheeks turn the colour of my dress.
posted by Lady V at 3:46 pm
7 Comments:
it must be in the water.. you all drank in the lake district..
It has to be..
you do live your women, ahem, older.......errrrrrrrrrrrrrr
i keep reading this over and busting a rib.
Lady V! this entry should have come with a warning: do not read while eating, otherwise you'll end up with bits of food splattered on your computer screen...
After reading this, for just one crazy minute, I wished I was with you - sanity has now prevailed...
I wish you'd been there too. I think you and Mrs T would have got on famously....
can you introduce me to the devil-obsessed priest? pleeeeeeeeeease...!!!
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