Please call the church warden on…

The vicar is away for several weeks’ holidays.  That means anyone phoning the vicarage with queries is asked to phone me as church warden.  I don’t mind.  Happy to help.  Variety is the spice of life, and I get a wide variety of calls.

First call of the hols – yesterday

Unknown mobile, a lady’s voice:

Hallo.  Do you spik Englisch or Cherman?

G in G:

Würden Sie lieber auf Deutsch reden?

WE speak in German.  The caller is one of the local undertakers.  An English lady has recently died.  As she’s not Catholic, the local Catholic priest won’t bury her.  Can the Anglican priest come to … Cemetery this Friday and bury her ashes in an urn?

G in G:

No.  He’s on holiday abroad this month.  How urgent is it?

Untertaker:

It’s not urgent.  Her ashes are in an urn.

A very practical, German answer.

I email the vicar and cc: the undertaker to assess next steps.

Today the untertaker writes back to advise the local Catholic priest will, after all, bury the English lady’s ashes.  Very kind of him.

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This afternoon I decide to sit in the library in the city centre in order to:

1. Read the Torygraph
2. Write my diary
3. Think of some blog writing to plan for my avid readers thereof

Another phone call from an unknown mobile number.  It’s a semi-regular member of congregation.

Can the vicar countersign some passport and birth certificate documentation, please?

G in G:

No.  He’s on holiday this month.  What’s the situation?  Maybe I can help?

It turns out:

• The fiance is a national of country X
• but was born in country Y
• and also has a passport of country Z

Fiancee is a German national, but has decided that she and fiance will get married in Caribbean country XX, which requires about 300 copies of doxs (countersigned by a doctor, teacher, priest or person of similar standing) in order for a marriage to take place there.  But if all else fails, they will marry in a German registry office to make it all legal.

G in G:

Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrright, I think I understand.  Where are you right now?

Semi-regular member of congregation (SMOC):

We’re at the airport.

G in G:

If you’d like to come to the library in the city centre, I can take a look and countersign.

SMOC’s fiance turns up thirty minutes later.  We sit in the library.  I have a brainwave.

Let’s jump in your car and head to the church.  We have a selection of rubber stamps there.  That’ll make everything look more official .

Twenty minutes later we reach the church office.  I grab the official rubber stamps and the ink pad.  I take a sheet of A4 paper from the photocopier.

Thump, thump!   Thump, thump!

For a moment, I felt like I was an immigration official at passport control.

I show the sample rubber stamps to SMOC and fiance.  They are happy.

I take the copies of passport and driving licence.  Fountain pen out, I write:

I certify…

I open the ink pad again.

Thump, thump!

Church rubber stamp next to my signature and at the bottom of the page.  Off you go!

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Have a rubbery day, won’t you!

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This is one of the classic British TV adverts.  Schatz had a good blub the first time she watched it.  I had a wee lump in my throat.

Have an bear-able day, won’t you!

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The British have a reputation for producing the world’s funniest adverts.  Well, I’m a Brit, and I like this advert from the 80’s.

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Comedy Dystopia

Praise be to www.meetup.com !  This week I went to a creative writers evening in a city centre cafe.  Friendly people, well-organised, and a very enjoyable “Stimmung” (atmosphere).  Lots of envelopes packed full of prompts, ideas for a story.

Here’s the prompt I selected.

This presented a challenge for me.

• I’m not a woman.
• I’m not very experienced at writing “He said… she said… tears rolling down to her chin…” prose.

Then I thought of SJ, an ex-girlfriend of mine from decades ago and a diatribe of a voicemail she left me when our relationship ended, full of invective and sarcasm.  Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

Bingo!  I had my material to respond to this prompt.  Thirty minutes later I read out my piece.  It gets a laugh.  And another one.  And another.  Phew, the people are either very polite, or they got the dark humour and digs at the Family Values Member of Parliament.

The expression, comedy dystopia, was then coined by one of the other attendees.

I like that expression.

1984 as a satirical comedy?

The Trial as a musical?

Feel free to stick any ideas or complete manuscripts into your nearest postbox.

Drop us a line or two!

Have a dystopic day, won’t you!