Blogsbody and his Dogsbloggy plot their final resting place
Think about it. And Blogsbody is. After swearing off sex for Lent. And given to reckoning on this 3rd Sunday in the purple-vested ecclesiastical season there are but only 27 more nights and days left to go, before the egged Easter Feast of the Resurrection is celebrated in Cressroads or wherever.
Not, however, something Blogsbody chooses to jar about over his pint of Palmer’s brewed-in-Dorset, Copper real ale. Stood at the Primmer Bar of the Tichborne Arms, and making the acquaintance of a visiting churchwarden with flowing white locks and a brace of black hounddogs straining on their matching green restraints to want back outdoors.
Evidently a hunting, fishing, cabinet-making pillar of the nearby parish of St. Peter - or so Blogsbody is soon led to believe - where the lonely pub visitor mourns the loss of his partner throughout their past six years spent living in the much sought-after Hampshire village of Ovington.
Affectionately remembered as ‘Lady Cash-and-Carry’ by folk in the wealthy Arle Valley benefice of the diocese of Winchester, and a late neighbour of Ovington’s fondly tagged ‘Lady Basildon Bond’.
Much as the churchwarden is nicknamed Trevor-the-Wid.
In the words of his Anglican superiors: ‘Someone a congregation respects as a leader, and who can take charge when needed.
‘A Churchwarden may have to take a service at ten minutes notice, or deal with the press when some scandal occurs. He or she needs to guide the parish council to make the right decisions.
‘Churchwardens should be wise. And, if needed, firm. They should not be frightened when dealing with senior clergy. They should nourish and maintain their own Christian faith, and not let it become stale in the wake of logistical concerns about the church.’
Then for bereaved Trevor-the-Wid to witness Blogsbody shake hands with Tichborne’s Henry Primmer, a retired stockman for the town hack’s General Dogsbloggy. And overhear the two pledge one to the other that, whoever dies first, the other is doubly committed to deliver the promise of a wicker basket and bier for his woodland burial.
“What a sad, sad man,” the churchwarden fears for Blogsbody’s time left on Earth.
After their conversation verges on the departure of souls, and Trevor thinks to share how he anticipates attracting the displeasure of his Anglican superiors by attending an upcoming service in a Spiritualist Church.
“Something I have to do,” he chooses not to be spooked by Blogsbody holding forth on Spiritualist experiences in Shrewsbury. Wedged between Brontannia (see March 08, 2009) and her Welsh mum. Then elbowed in his ribs by each of them as purses and wallets open to thank mediums bringing messages from the dead.
