For Those Who Walk Abroad In Socks & Sandals

Nave of Hearts: A Churchgoing Love Story Revisited

Although out of breath from chasing my daughter's pet rabbit around the cabbage patch, I still managed to make it to the Chapel just in time for Evensong or whatever mediaeval ceremony the faithful few were celebrating. My wife Margery was kneeling - as she always does - in a pew nearest the memorial stained-glass window featuring ‘Saint Cuthbert the Acne-Scarred Scattering Turnips Amongst the Forty Children of Ethel the Brood Mare.’
"Get up you stupid slag." I hissed. "Your hairline is visible from the pulpit and the vicar can see the join." I had spotted Reverend Bilge’s beady eye and arched brow staring down at the top of Margery’s head from his lofty perch the minute I flung the door open.
"We shall now sing Hymn 362."He announced, as if someone had just farted in the font.
Then old, wizened Mrs Peachum began kneading the organ as, on cue, Margery, creaking and groaning, finally rose to her feet. "Sweet Jesu Maileth In My Rebate Oh Great Redeemer" the congregation sang, always a difficult hymn for bass-baritones like Margery. Poor cow.
Poor me, for that matter; it was no fun being married to the bum note in the choir, if you get my drift.
And so, while Margery was still enthralled in song, I was able to fold my secret epistle into a paper airplane and send it flying across the apse to be caught Miss Prym’s warm, caressing hands. It said: "I’ve laid on tea for two in the Parsonage garden. Meet me after the service and I’ll butter your scones."
My spectacles began to steam up as I watched Miss Prym adjust her girdle as she read my letter. I was already sweating with anticipation beneath my wooly cardigan, the green and beige one that Miss Prym had remarked very favorably upon that June afternoon twelve years earlier. Racked with nerves, I glanced over at Miss Pym’s divine form once more. Had it been wise to strike while the iron was still so hot?

…. To be continued in seventeen years time.

Comments

[Bleak Mouse]

And yet...and yet...Hadn't Margery, a mere forty years before, been the very septessence of angelic pulchritude in those blushing watercolours that graced so many covers of the Weekly Parasol Gazette? That moist, upturned brow, those languid bubbling lips, the insolent architecture of that towering bosom... As you never failed to mention, you were lucky to have her, as, had we been so ungallant to mention it, had every man present.

You seemed so very happy. What happened? It was that nasty business with the infected apes, wasn't it? It seemed an unfortunate trifle at the time, but there was talk that there was something not quite right with her hormones. When the hounds turned up dead --

But we all thought you a good man, sticking by her like that. No one would, after all these years, think the less of you for locking her up and having your way with Miss Prym.

[Mrs. Peperium]

Those must be some scones if you can still savor them 12 years later...