Harvest Supper

The children behaved impeccably (that they did not sin seems quite appropriate for a churchy sort of doo). They happily did jigsaws until it was time for dinner, ate their dinner nicely (Pugsley did make a slug on the tablecloth out of half a bread roll, some ham and some cucumber, but he was quite tidy about it. At the end, he decided it was a ladybird and ate it) and joined in with conversations cheerfully and politely.

It was a jolly evening all told. There were thirty of us and have I mentioned (this is a conversational nicety, Dave; I have) that I did not have to help with the arrangements at all? I did make a bread-and-butter pudding, which I sampled (along with a few other puds) to make sure it was good. It contained a loaf of buttered bread, two and a half pints of milk, eight bantam eggs and sultanas, sugar and vanilla essence. Ten minutes before we were due to leave, I took it out of the bottom oven, discovered it was still runny in the centre and shoved it back in the top (hot) oven again – it was ready by the time we were.

Interesting developments regarding the flat in London; it seems the agent has Pulled His Finger Out and found a tenant. Rapid redecorating required. More news on that to follow.

I did a splendidly large pedestal flower arrangement and a smaller one to balance it to go on the altar, and have draped grapes still attached to the vine around a cross, arranged a home-made loaf against it and will add a jug of wine tomorrow. Lots of flowers and greenery were brought as well as plenty of fruit, vegetables and packeted and tinned food, all carefully arranged. The village schoolchildren made paper flowers to decorate the pew ends. The church looks cared for.

I don’t have to play the organ tomorrow, but I do next week, when the Bishop is coming. Hmm. The Rector has promised to let me have the hymns by Monday evening. It’ll be fine. At the worst, the Bishop will have a fine opportunity to practise Christian virtues of tolerance and forgiveness. Moi, je suis une autocrate. C’est mon metier. Le bon Dieu me pardonnera. C’est son metier*,” as Catherine the Great (reference books disagree, but she’s the earliest credited) said. That fortifies me quite often, when I’ve fallen by the wayside in a metaphorical sort of way.

Thanks to those who have sent photos to Ro’s website. He is really pleased – he wasn’t sure if anyone would, and that you’ve gone to so much trouble is very lovely and warming.

*I didn’t check it and I rarely write in French. You’re welcome to correct it.

12 comments on “Harvest Supper

  1. Dandelion

    I would! I think she means metaphysical.

    And as for balancing on flowers, well, I’ve seen a sugar bowl, I’ve seen a jelly roll, I saw a needle that winked its eye. But I think I will have seen everything when I see an elephant fly.

  2. Z

    It’s all right Dave, I’m not holding anything pointy or heavy. And if I were, it would be aimed in Dandee’s direction.

    I thought I wouldn’t link in the post to the bags this time, because it would become a bit laboured and bore you. Fair enough about the linking; I wrote a post about it a while back and I’ll find it and point people in its direction.

    Caitlin, even on the rare days when I haven’t done anything I shouldn’t, what about the things I could have done and didn’t?

  3. Gordie

    I think Pugsley is showing great potential, Catherine the Great is an excellent role model, and bishops are overrated. And if you want to hold something that’s pointy and heavy, I trust you to know what to do with it.

  4. Z

    The best way to behave to a man who is dressed in a long purple frock and carrying a shepherd’s crook is not to notice. It’s only polite, poor chap. And, it goes without saying, don’t talk about religion. About as welcome as showing your rash to a doctor you meet at a party.

    Not that I’m ever rash, of course.


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