The Font At Egerton

St James, Egerton again-

Here's the font.



It looks to be of roughly the same vintage as Sir John Darrell (passim)- because- stylistic considerations apart- that appears to be a Tudor rose to the left.

The bowl is octagonal, with panels at the quarters carrying the symbols of the four evangelists. The one above is the angel of St Matthew.

More angels support the bowl. Whoever did the carving was a skilled craftsman- but a little shaky when it came to human anatomy. He has rather fudged the hands. I presume the whole thing would originally have been painted (because the medievals painted everything) and the shields the angels are displaying would have carried information- sacred symbols or heraldry- to tell us who the donor was and where their loyalties lay.

What The Curate Said

I put tea leaves and coffee grounds on the flower beds. They supply nutrients. Our soil here- except in places where earlier generations have fed it with bags and bags of Irish bog- is very poor- a slathering of sticky clay over a bedrock of builders' rubble and broken-up tractors.

Mary- our most accessible neighbour- walked round with a Christmas card. She and I met on the drive and observed social distancing without either of us making an issue of it. One steps forward, the other steps back: it's like country dance. She asked me what we'd be doing for my mother's 100th birthday- and I said we'd leave it till nearer the time- and keep it small- because it's not as if she'll notice there's a party going on. Sooner or later (this is me thinking not the two of us talking) the issue is going to arise as to whether we solicit a birthday card from the Queen. I won't do it because I don't believe in encouraging the Windsors, but I expect somebody else will.

"Don't you find it frightening" asks Mary (we're back on Covid again) and I give my standard response. "No, because the worst that can happen is we'll die." I don't add that death is a happy homecoming because not everybody believes this to be the case- and I'm not into missionary work.

Which puts me in mind of my favourite joke.

Lady parishioner to curate: "What do you think happens when we die, Mr Jones?"

Curate to lady parishioner: "I suppose we will inherit eternal life- but lets not talk about anything so unpleasant."

Curates in popular culture are always timid and socially awkward. I wonder why?