Not before time am I preparing to bid a none-too-fond farewell to the last vestiges of winter. Spring is most definitely in the air at St Cliff’s which, to tell the truth, is not the only thing. It would certainly not even have required the services of a nasally-enhanced bloodhound to have detected the disturbing aroma that has recently graced this hallowed building. I was reliably informed that Mrs Bidmarsh and her cleaning ladies had given our pews the ‘once over’ with Mr Sheen or some such branded wood-reviving agent in their usually quick-off-the-mark spring clean (it still being only early March) but, as I suspected, what they intended to use and what they actually ended up coating our ecclesiastical leg rests with were not one and the same thing.
A warm welcome to my world and that of my charge, St Cliff’s. I fear that I would not be introducing myself to you had it nor been for my recent annual performance review with the bishop. Having spent the first ten minutes in silence whilst he painstakingly perused St Cliff’s less-than-satisfactory attendance figures, the bishop then proceeded to question my ability to fulfil my vicarious (or should I say, precarious) duties.