Pray Vicar, Pray!
Updated: Dec 16, 2020
Mother forced me to go on a Christian pilgrimage with her to keep her company. This was my last choice on how to spend 2 precious weeks of annual leave; however, Mother knows how to guilt-trip her offspring so I conceded.
We were ordered to go to a pre-pilgrimage meeting in Salisbury Church, 80 miles from London. It was a beautiful sunny Saturday which may have been why Mother pulled out at the last minute and made me go by myself.
I arrived to find I was the youngest person by about 4 decades and everyone already seemed acquainted. I sidled over to the refreshment table hoping for some holy wine and granary bread. I was given warm orange juice, a biscuit and some awkward small talk.
Turning around to escape, I stood in wonder trying to work out how all the ancients had managed to move so quickly and disappear into the pews. There was one seat left at the front next to a lady who looked like she'd been around at the time of Jesus. I squeezed in next to her while the Vicar started to talk about the Holy Land.
This had been going on for quite some time when the old lady slowly slid her hand into my crotch. This was the most interesting thing that had happened since I arrived. However, when she then put her head on my shoulder, I thought I should probably tell her that this was inappropriate behaviour for church. I turned to find she'd actually fallen asleep.
I gave a gentle shake to wake up the old dear. She really was very sound asleep. In fact, she didn't even move her eyelids. I shook a little harder which caused her to fall forward onto my chest. There was a little bit of groaning and when I saw the drool and bile dripping on to my jeans, I shook a lot more firmly. The old dear lurched forward, her head hitting the pew in front, but still she didn't move. Or breathe.
At this point, I interrupted the Vicar from his monologue to alert him to the situation. Pandemonium ensued amongst the pilgrims. Above the commotion, I suggested that maybe someone should call for an ambulance. This caused the most high-pitched of the women to call 999. Except that when she got through, she panicked because she didn't know where we were and cancelled the call.
The Vicar continued to unhelpfully wring his hands. I continued to fan the old dear who was barely breathing. 'What should we do?' the Vicar screeched. 'Maybe you could all pray', I, the heathen, advised. The Vicar lead the prayer which had a calming effect on the congregation whilst I got a local person to recall the emergency services.
The ambulance arrived and we took the old dear outside where she was attended to and recovered. I missed the rest of the meeting and then had to drive the 80 miles home.
Mother laughed uncontrollably when I recounted the tale and told me to start a website called Being Kelly, which is where the idea for this blog came from. Mazel Tov!