‘We don’t have a televithion. Daddy thayth itth bad enough we have to live in the world without welcoming itth wanton ideologieth into our home through the corrupt broadcatht media.’
I was horrified. No television! How are children supposed to grow up to become well-adjusted adults without a twice-weekly injection of Blue Peter?
‘Oh, I suppose you sit around the piano and sing carols for entertainment.’ I congratulated myself on remembering that Zilpah had just passed her Grade 5 piano exam. Here I felt on safe ground.
‘Most popular carols are spiritually unsound and incongruous with the accepted account of the nativity to be found in the Gospels,’ announced Zilpah darkly. ‘Like there weren’t three Kings from Orient. They were Magi and we don’t know how many of them there were. The Bible just mentions three gifts…’
My mind battled with the thought of trying to sing ‘We three or possibly two or possibly more than three Magi of Orient are…’ It didn’t work, somehow.
‘…and Jesus almost certainly wasn’t born in the bleak midwinter. Even if it was winter, it’s unlikely that in Bethlehem snow would have fallen, snow on snow…’
‘…and a thtable doesn’t get mentioned at all, jutht a manger, let alone a lowly cattle thed…’
‘…the holly and the ivy were pagan symbols, and an attempt to justify their inclusion in the festivities by comparing them to the sufferings of our Lord is just…’
‘…and as for three ships coming sailing in…’
Fortunately, at this point the organist struck the first chord of ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’ (apparently not on the unsound carol blacklist) and the congregation shuffled to their feet and belted out the ancient invitation to worship.
Saturday 26 December
BOXING DAY
For the first time in history I have been given a present which is actually functional and fun. My family clubbed together and bought me a computer! It’s fantastic! It’s got everything—spreadsheets, databases, CD-ROM with multimedia capability, word processor, modem for Internet connection so I can use e-mail—everything. I’m so pleased with it, I feel like a kid with a new toy. The word processor package has just
billions OF different fonts.
It has a spoll chicker too, but I haven’t quite got the hang of that yet. It will revolutionize communications in this household. It’s the start of my journey into the ‘technoworld’. Twenty-first century, here I am! Er … any idea how to deleteeeeeeeeeee?
It has games, too—which, of course, are childish and a complete waste of time. It also has a diary package, hence the current writings. After using the unruly machine at work, and the piece of antiquity at the church office, this is a marvellous opportunity to become familiar with the workings of state-of-the-art technology.
It’s about the only thing I’m likely to get familiar with around here. Kevin’s gone to ‘the most important match of the season’ today. It’s funny: they all seem to be ‘the most important match of the season’. I wonder if I should put the champagne on ice or look up the number for the Samaritans?
6 p.m.
Kevin came round. Nil—nil, so neither the champagne nor the Samaritans required. He got fed up with me playing Solitaire on the computer, muttered something about being a ‘computer widower’, and went again. Ha! Now he knows how I feel all the way through the football season. Just one more game, then I’ll go and do something useful.
9 p.m.
Just one more game.
11 p.m.
Solitaire nearly worked out that time. I was so close, just six cards left.
2 a.m.
Just one more game.
Sunday 27 December
Went to the evening service. It’s hard to believe that only two days ago we were all standing here celebrating the Saviour’s birth. The carols already seem faded and trite. Everybody seems a little flat after two days of Christmas indulgence, like a bottle of lemonade when the screw cap hasn’t been properly tightened.
Digger looked dog tired. I suppose the time of year everyone else regards as a period of holiday and recreation is the time clergymen work the hardest.
Monday 28 December
We definitely overdid the Christmas crackers this year. I bought a box, Ariadne bought a box, Tom won a box in a raffle at work, Ag sent a box from China (apparently he’s now working in Beijing), and Mum had already bought two boxes just in case we ran out. Dad insists we use them up. He doesn’t want them hanging around cluttering up the house, he says. It’s the first time I’ve ever pulled a cracker and worn a paper crown while eating my boiled egg at breakfast.
Thursday 29 December
Kevin has insisted that I give the Solitaire a rest. He says I’m becoming obsessed and that it isn’t normal to be shut in your bedroom playing computer games for 16 hours a day. He’s a fine one to talk about obsession. As for normality, just try asking any 12-year-old boy what’s normal.
The computer has a dictation facility, so you can speak into a microphone and it types the words for you. You have to train it to understand your voice, but I speak clearly enough for anyone to understand, so here goes…
Begin dictation
9 new computer has paid the recent survey into the microphone at the rights to wear its full-year. You have to eat rabbits to understand of or if the guys speak clearly enough what the new one to understand that Higgins.
End dictation
Oh dear! Perhaps I do need to teach it to recognize my voice.
Wednesday 30 December
Dragged away from Solitaire by the phone. Digger and Jeremiah are going to look at computers in the sales and would like me to go with them. The church secretary is away in Eastbourne and, reading between the lines, I gather this would be a good time to replace the office equipment. I wonder if she’ll notice.
6.30 p.m.
Constructive afternoon searching computer shops, in spite of Jeremiah muttering about ‘dark forces at work’ and looking intently at the backs of all the computers. I whispered that perhaps Jeremiah was looking for the number 666. Digger told me not to be unkind.
Thursday 31 December
I went to the New Year’s Eve party in the church hall. Kevin had already arranged to go out with his friends and he looked so pathetic when I tried using emotional blackmail to get him to come with me that I let him go. Everyone brought food and drink. Mum contributed the excess stock from her ‘Greek Christmas specialities’ range, which was enough to feed the five thousand without a miracle. We laughed, sang, hugged and exchanged the Peace as the clock struck midnight. Most of St Norbert’s congregation were there, except Jeremiah Wedgwood, who felt it would be wrong to attend an ‘indulgence of fleshly appetites’ and intended to mark the night as a vigil of self-denial. I know Digger did his best to persuade him to come, but Jeremiah stood firm.
I can imagine poor Jeremiah standing just outside the gates of heaven, making sure that no one enjoyed themselves too much.
January
Friday 1 January
I have made three New Year’s resolutions. The first is to try to keep this diary up to date (and keep the Solitaire within sensible limits). In over six months, I have yet to see the spiritual heights ascended. I am, however, trying to view this as a positive learning experience. Ariadne spent most of last year telling me to stop trying so hard to be someone else and let God use the person I am. I still seem to be trying too hard, getting it wrong and ending up in a worse position than when I started.
I shall have to try harder not to try so hard.
After the Christmas excesses, everything has gone pearshaped (literally) diet-wise, so it’s back to a sensible, healthy eating plan. My second resolution involves cottage cheese and a generous helping of willpower.
My third resolution is to try to be more tolerant towards Kevin. He can’t help being spiritually degenerate. I’m sure his time of redemption is at hand. The other day I caught him reading his Bible for Blokes when he thought no one was looking. I also aim to be more magna
nimous towards his interest in football. It’s his only vice, bless him, and when you spend your day unblocking drains, you need some form of escapism.
That reminds me: he’s late. He said he’d be here at seven, and it’s gone quarter past.
Saturday 2 January
Kev was at the match this afternoon, so I took the opportunity to go into town and return all those unwanted Christmas presents to Marks & Spencer, like you do. It was interesting to see how many things I managed to exchange which hadn’t even been bought there.
I reckon Christmas presents fall into two categories: gifts you buy for people but would really like yourself, and gifts which have the sole function of relieving the obligation to buy something. The socket set Dad bought me last year definitely falls into category one. He only buys me things like that so he can borrow them back when he needs to. Three months later, he’ll ring up and say, ‘I’ve been trying to undo the nut on my rocker-box pinion-cover and realized I need a 10-millimetre ring spanner. You don’t have one spare, do you?’
I’ll say, ‘Do you know, I think I’ve got just the thing.’
Never mind, I gave it back to him for his birthday.
The second category includes those presents from aunties—scented coat hangers or notelets for a female and beer-flavoured bubble bath or initialled hankies for a man—which look as if they’ve come from a WI tombola. Nobody wants them. Nobody uses them. They just get put back into the WI tombola, to be bought and given as presents again the following year. I swear I once received a present that had the raffle ticket still taped to it.
Still, it’s good for the environment, endless recycling.
Sunday 3 January
Digger announced today that the service in two weeks’ time is to be a joint service for all the churches in the district. It will be held in the United Reformed Church hall a few miles away and will involve representatives from the Christian Fellowship, the Baptists, the Methodists, the local Roman Catholic church and, of course, St Norbert’s. Afterwards there will be a buffet lunch and he’s suggested that St Norbert’s congregation should be in charge of the catering.
Charity’s hand immediately shot up. ‘I would be only too happy to bake a batch or two of spinach, lentil and pine nut quiche.’
‘Ripper!’ responded Digger, beaming profusely. ‘I’m sure we can rely on the ladies and gentlemen of the parish to come up trumps.’
Jeremiah cornered me over coffee in the church hall. ‘Of course I will not be attending that travesty of a service and I intend to persuade other right-minded people to do the same. I trust I have your support in this, Miss Llewellyn?’
‘I’m not sure you do, Jeremiah,’ I said. ‘After all, I think that unity among the Christian churches is a very good thing. Showing that we can put our denominational differences aside and get along is a great witness.’
‘But … but…’ he spluttered, ‘it would be disastrous. People outside the church will think we all believe in the same thing!’
Monday 4 January
Back to work. I sometimes wonder about Declan’s mental state. He thinks Christmas cracker jokes are funny.
‘Theodora,’ he said, ‘what do you get if you cross a chicken with a spider?’
‘I don’t know, but I’ve got a feeling you’re going to tell me.’
‘Eight drumsticks!’
He nearly fell off his chair laughing. Is there any hope?
Tuesday 5 January
So far, so good with the resolutions. I even managed to sound interested when Kevin explained the significance of the player’s middle name and its influence on their goalscoring average. Apparently, players with the middle name of John are 23 per cent more likely to score than those called David or Michael. Amazing!
Wednesday 6 January
Diet going reasonably well too. Have been eating sensibly for five days now and have lost two pounds. I’ll have to recommend it to Ariadne; she’s starting to look a bit podgy.
(Must remember not to show her today’s entry. She’ll make me eat it and ruin my diet!)
Thursday 7 January
EPIPHANY
If I was taking gifts to a new baby, even 2,000 years ago, I would have chosen something more practical than gold, airfreshener and embalming fluid.
Friday 8 January
I’m in a state of shock. Can’t write any more today.
Saturday 9 January
Ariadne is pregnant! Not just a little bit, but over three months pregnant!
She’s been in a funny mood for a while, but yesterday she seemed really upset when I suggested the diet.
‘What is the matter with you, Ariadne?’ I said. ‘You’re crabbier than a rattlesnake with PMT.’
‘I wish!’ She hung her head.
‘What?’
‘Oh Theo…’ She took a deep breath, then let it out as a shuddering sigh. ‘I’m expecting a baby.’
I searched her eyes to work out whether to congratulate her or commiserate with her.
‘I just don’t know how it happened.’
She’s 32 years old. Did she want me to explain the facts of life? I took a deep breath. ‘Well…’
‘Oh, don’t be silly. I know how it happened physically. I just don’t know how it happened organizationally.’
Organizationally? Does she book it in her diary—‘Have sex with Tom’—somewhere between board meetings and appointments at the hairdresser’s?
‘Theo, I just don’t think I’m ready for this. A baby would ruin everything—my career, my freedom, my cream carpets, everything that means so much to me.’
I didn’t like to tell her that she didn’t seem to have much choice in the matter. She looked close to tears.
‘I just don’t think I’m a natural mother. I had plans. Oh, I know I’m being selfish and…’ A single tear sneaked past the perimeter fence of her composure.
‘Things don’t always happen as we plan them,’ I said, casting about for a helpful idea, ‘but it’s up to us to make the best of them. You would still be able to work, if you get a nanny or something.’ She looked unconvinced. ‘Or how about Tom staying home to look after the baby? He’s a natural with kids.’
Her lips twisted into a faint smile. ‘Yes, he is, isn’t he.’
I imagined Tom at the kitchen table, surrounded with nappies and teddies, scooping baby mush into the mouth of a screaming baby while Ariadne sat with her briefcase and laptop, sipping coffee. Tom would love it. Ariadne would love it.
‘I think it could work.’
She nodded. ‘Maybe.’ And for the first time in days, I saw her smile.
Sunday 10 January
Digger Graves arrived at church today with a black eye and a rather sheepish look on his face. After the service he explained that, in the ecumenical spirit he was so keen to foster, he had joined in a ‘friendly’ football match involving the local ministers and clergy.
‘This,’ he winced as he tenderly fingered the bruised flesh around his eye, ‘was courtesy of the local Baptist minister’s elbow. And this,’ he rolled up his trouser leg to reveal a graze running the length of his shin, ‘was the result of a tackle from the Salvation Army.’
‘I thought it was supposed to be a friendly?’ I queried.
‘Oh, we didn’t really mean business. We all shook hands at the end, quite amicable. I’ll tell you one thing, though.’ He flinched as he rubbed his back. ‘If I ever get set upon in a dark alley, I want that Quaker fellow on my side.’
Monday 11 January
A memo arrived on my desk this morning with details of training courses.
‘See if there’s anything which takes your fancy,’ said Declan. ‘The company will pay.’
Is he serious? I can never tell.
Tuesday 12 January
Apparently, tensions are starting to mount over the ecumenical service next Sunday. I’m not one to listen to gossip, but I overheard Nigel Hubble, who’s on the committee, telling Jeremiah, Rev. Graves and Mr Wilberforce, the PCC treasu
rer, that it would be a miracle if the service happened at all. To start with, there was a dispute over what to call the service. The Roman Catholics favoured ‘Service of Peace and Reconciliation’, the Baptists insisted on ‘Joint Churches’ Celebration’, and the local Christian Fellowship said that it would have to be called ‘Jesus Together’ or they wouldn’t join in.
The United Reformed Church, who own the only hall big enough for the service, have invoiced all the other churches for their share of the costs of hiring the hall, its facilities, electricity, heating and rental of the chairs. The invoices were passed around at the start of the committee meeting and apparently the Baptist minister had to be physically restrained from thumping the URC minister and was sent away to sit at the other end of the table.
Nigel felt it didn’t bode well. Mr Wilberforce resignedly prepared a cheque for St Norbert’s share of the rental. Jeremiah said, ‘I told you so.’ Digger suggested we pray like crazy and hope for the best.
I understand that everybody can’t be right in this situation, but I am worried that everybody can be wrong.
Wednesday 13 January
Charity pounced on me during my evening ‘constitutional’ around the village, despite the bitter cold. I don’t understand how someone that large and that florid could possibly conceal herself. But she did. Meetings with Charity nearly always take me by surprise. For a moment, I thought she was going to ‘talk quiche’.
‘Ah, Theodora. I’m glad I caught you.’
I sensed I was due either to be criticized or conscripted. ‘What can I do for you, Charity?’
‘Well, you know I regard involvement in my children’s education as one of my most important motherly duties…’
I remembered hearing about the time she was asked to organize a school assembly. She staged a re-enactment of King David’s battle against the Amalekites using imitation weapons, papier-mâché severed limbs and several bottles of tomato ketchup. One child fainted, three more had hysterical fits, and the rest of the infant classes were led from the hall in stunned silence. One plucky little chap was apparently heard saying as he left, ‘I liked the bit where he chopped his arm off and all the blood came squirting out. It was great—just like a James Bond film!’
Theodora's Diary Page 11
