poliphilo

I went past my old church the other day. Vicar of St Anne's, R*****, 83-86. Or was it 82-86? I forget. And another thing I forget is whether Anne is spelled with an "e" or not.

And that's my point: I forget. And I rather hope the people there have forgotten too. But I suppose they'll have a photo of me on the vestry wall. I'm pretty sure they do, because they asked me for one and I went and had it taken specially, but then they wouldn't accept it because I wasn't wearing a dog-collar (I'd sworn I'd never put on that symbol of servitude ever again.) But never mind they said, we've found an old one that'll do. That'll be the one where I look like a Walt Disney chipmunk. Innocent and foolish. Ha-ha, he,he. Cackle.

I didn't do anything terribly bad. My wife was off wandering round Manchester with her new girlfriend, and I was all broke up so I got one myself- a girlfriend, I mean. Then I shopped myself to the Bishop because, unlike Tony Blair, I find it horrible to live a lie. They called me the "randy rev of R*****". Later, after I became a witch, that changed to "The Dark Lord of Oldham".

So, no, they won't have forgotten me, will they? I was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to them. (An earlier vicar got caught with his hand in the collection plate but that was hushed up.) I am Legend.

But, to return to the beginning, I went past the old place and I felt nothing. I have forgotten THEM. Hooray! If I make the effort to remember, as now, it's like remembering something I read in a book.