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Church Unmilitant
The curate came round to give my mother communion- as he does once a month. Usually we leave Kirstie to look after him but Kirstie is on holiday- in Rome. He's a smiley, nervy, ingratiating chap, uncertain of his place in the pecking order- the archetypal curate in fact, though older than the traditional curate- a man in his fifties who used to be a solicitor or a stockbroker or something like that...
But then he's asking questions- which amount to "So tell me what you do all day..." And I use my trusty shield and buckler, deflecting. blocking, because, "Really, you know, I'm not one of your little flock, mate."
But then he's asking questions- which amount to "So tell me what you do all day..." And I use my trusty shield and buckler, deflecting. blocking, because, "Really, you know, I'm not one of your little flock, mate."
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Thankfully, they now know to take note of the notice on our front door stating that we do not purchase goods, services or religion at the doorstep. :o)
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