What to do on a Sunday, when one has risen from their boudoir just in time to have missed morning service at the local spiritual establishment, and is in the company of God-fearing guests?
Stand outside one’s clifftop cave with a box of orange-flavoured Matchmakers, and coax them out into the open.
A winner every time!
Once out on the open plains, ignore the wind, bypass McDonalds, and make your way along Church Field Road, leaving a trail of Matchmakers in your wake. The latter touch will establish you as the pack leader (Simple Simon style) and ensure that your guests follow suit. Yes, it might be quicker to make haste on your tod, but why leave the guests behind when your home is stashed from dirt floor to stalagmite ceiling with alcoholic beverages? In such circumstances, with the guests suffering withdrawal from their weekly sup of the sacred wine (and shared-flu-germ) goblet, it really wouldn’t do to allow them free-unsupervised play – would it?
If the Matchmakers last out long enough to get your party as far as the Just Recruitment offices, and a few yards beyond, take a left turn at the public footpath sign and head on to St Mary’s Church. Pause and check on the guests; they ought to be ecstatic, at the realisation they have, against all the odds, still made a Sunday Service of some kind. Stand in front of the church notice board, and wave them past; being up front of you will give them a momentary feeling of significance and blessedness, at the same time as screening the reality of the situation from them (St Mary’s is only open for services the first Sunday of each month!).
Yes, one can lead one’s sheep through the turnstile and all the way to the church doors and into the heaven within, before it will dawn upon them that you’ve led them up the churchyard for nothing. Ha, ha! And, once they are safely ensconced within, you can take the opportunity for a photo shoot. Sadly, only one of my guests stood their ground at this point, as the others had scarpered into the vestry in search of a non-existent man-of-the-cloth!
Still, I’m sure you will agree that it was only the most photogenic of models who remained standing at the alter. Yes, and one might almost think she is waiting for something (a pre-season Easter Bunny, perhaps?) to whisk her right up the red (come blue) carpet to the holy table itself!
Instead, she is left standing there, taking command of an imaginary congregation in her best Sunday hat, whilst her photographer becomes distracted by the lure of a draughts board.
But why has a nativity scene been plonked down in the middle of the battlefield? How inappropriate! Good thing the interior designer isn’t here? How horrified they would be to see their efforts misinterpreted so! And where are the playing pieces? It’s no fun to advance in the absence of opposition; so instead, I step back and try to take in the whole.
Love the centre piece of the hanging lantern; it’s white shade being a perfect match for the white squares on the draughtsboard. Love the red floral touches even more; perfectly coordinated with the red-draughts board edging. Always did wonder why my Lego set had several of those long-smooth red pieces missing. Now, at least I know that they went astray for a good cause (scant consolation for my loss – I could have made a fortune, had I sold them on eBay!).
Nipping into the vestry, in the hope of rounding up my escapee walking companions, I find myself face-to-face with a smirking sleeper. Now, when someone looks like they are about to have a giggling fit, it’s pretty obvious that they are faking it. Is this Juliet, pretending to be dead, so that her boyfriend, Romeo, who she’s even less fond of than that awful geezer, Count Paris, will pass out long enough for her to do a quick runner?
And why does Juliet have a gash from her cheekbone down to her jawline? Is she trying out for a bit-part in Casualty? Something’s not quite right! And, no I’m not talking about my brain – all is perfectly good within, thank you (in spite of outward appearances)!
And Juliet’s not the only punter with a gash, but at least this one’s got the means with which to survive in the whatever-existence-comes-after-the-fake-death. Just take a look at that bulging money pouch!
Reckon the doting earless dog’s (1) in on the fake-death scam. Why else would he hang around at the smelly feet of his Master (Mercutio?) for so many years, if not for the promise of better things to come?
But I’m guessing a 21st century Post-Brexit all-you-can-eat eternal supply of canned American horse meat’s got to be worth a mutt holding out for – especially when one is accustomed to a 16th century diet of leftover bread crusts, cabbage and potatoes. Sorry, mutt, you’ve still got some waiting to do! Our current PM, Boris Johnson, is prone to more-than a bit of exaggeration, when it comes to the speed of his ‘get the job done’ promises. So, my dear little foot-mutt, take my advice: Don’t wake up from your slumber, quite yet, unless, of course, you have a preference for the flavours of France! In terms of an upgrade from cabbage, I’m told that Percheron entrails have an awful lot going for them!
Further investigation of Juliet’s resume, reveals that she is actually an Anne Crane, wife to the late Robert Crane II (died 1500). But if anyone expects me to believe that she died in 1521, they can think again. Anne’s as alive as Robert is dead. And the guy with the money, turns out to be Anne’s son, George Crane. Really, Anne, you’re supposed to do all the relationship drama stuff in your teenage years, not after you’ve become a respectable married mother! Time to come round! In 2019, even if you wake up to find out that your Hubby, too, has been faking his death, it’s no big deal – just get yourself a divorce and go find the man of your dreams!
Still, enough of all the amateur dramatics, I need to get back to the present. Feeling a little peckish. Reckon the bulk of my guests have done a bunk, but guess I ought to round up the one I left standing near the Chancel.
I catch the rabbit, sling it over my shoulder, and make my way back to my cave. Sadly, I find it too mature for the pot, so taking pity on it, I allow it to sleep off it’s long walk instead, and I head on out again. This time, down Waldingfield Road, for a late-afternoon appreciation of the delights of Sudbury.
And the views are stunning. My Samsung A40 camera phone is not so stunning. I make periodic stops in various locations en route, to snap in the orange skies, only to find that my Samsung insists on smoothing over the finer details, the variations in red, orange, and brown streaks, with a dull-grey overcoat! My Samsung phone cameras is c**p. And to think that I only recently paid out a fortune to upgrade from my old Motorola! ‘Yes, yes. The Samsung has a much better camera than the Motorola!’ the Tesco sales lady insisted. What a con!
And whilst I’m on the subject of the A40, does anyone out there know why a ruler-thing appears on my screen, every time I try to take a photo? And why the ruler-thing won’t remove itself, so that I can actually take the photo? Is the Samsung A40 a load of ****, or is it me? (No response to the latter part of my question required!)
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, The Silly-Savvy Salopian in Suffolk, Sunday 29th December, 2019!
(1) Just checked out the ‘dog’ effigy – turns out it’s a unicorn, minus it’s horn. But, as I’ve got no idea about the dietary habits of unicorns, I’m sticking with the dog story!