This is a warning to whoever asked me to put something in the pew sheet next week (see 3 below).
- I may look as if I am engaging in that conversation with you on Sunday after church.
- I may look as if I am listening to your ideas as we sip coffee together on Sunday in the hall.
- I may even nod and agree to put your suggestion on to the pew sheet next week as promised.
- I may pocket your little envelope with money in it for something or other or accept your fiver for the magazine fund.
- I may agree to a meeting to be held in the rectory 3 months from now on a Thursday at 10am.
However, this is what is really going on…
- I am indeed listening to your conversation but I am also thinking about why there was absolutely no response to that sermon, why the choir didn’t seem to know that second hymn at all, why the roof only leaks on to the Advent Wreath when the wind is in a certain direction, whether I can phone the council about the use of the digger outside just as the service began, and when I can take these shoes off because they are nipping like hell.
- I am listening to your ideas but I am also wondering why I didn’t come up with it myself, thinking who on earth is going to carry them out because it certainly ain’t gonna be me, pondering why the last rector left, wondering who put that poster up on the notice board of a religious event which you’d rather stick pins in your eyes than attend, and trying to recall which of the Margarets you are. You are a Margaret, yes?
- Honestly I do intend to put your suggestion in the pew sheet. I really do. You do know that I don’t do the pew sheet, don’t you? You do know that I am actually thinking of a black pudding roll right at this minute, don’t you?
- Thank you for that little envelope or that fiver. Know that it will be safe in that pocket until such times as I take it out of the washing machine and shake the sodden lumps of paper around, or come across it when putting that particular cardie on in six months’ time. Whether it is the next day or six months’ time know that I will have no recollection of what that money was for. Nor who it was from. I may even spend it on Gin.
- Unless I have my diary in my hand and you see me writing it in immediately, please know that this will be forgotten by the time I have gone upstairs and had my lunch. Nay, by the time I have turned away from you to adore that new baby in the corner. It is not that you are not important. Nor is it that your meeting isn’t a great idea. Nor is it that I have dementia. It is just that on a Sunday I have a host of other things going on in my head and for some reason none of them stick. And don’t you know that we always have a Weekday Mass on Thursdays so I can’t come anyway?