Morning Has Broken

Quite a shock. After decoding scraps of information around the church and on the notice sheet, I’ve worked out that my new home has the equivalent of Pouring-out and Filling-up of Beakers. Except they’re called Morning and Evening Prayer. To be honest, the timing of Evening Prayer makes it more Afternoon Prayer, but maybe it’s like the Gregorian Calendar and the clocks have gone forwards since 1662 and nobody’s got round to fixing it yet. I’d strongly suggest General Synod discuss it, once they’ve got women bishops and gay relationships sorted out to everyone’s satisfaction.

Anyway,  I was expecting it to be all Jane Austen – you know; all the vicar’s extended family, and the servants from the Manor House, humble sons of the soil breaking from their morning’s labour to sing the praises of God.

Instead there was just Reverend Nathan, some old woman who, clearly, I don’t know yet, and me. 1662, but missing out the first chunk cos it’s not Sunday. Thankfully, with such a small gate, Nathan obviously decided to skip the hymns.

At the end, the old woman legged it off at high speed. Nathan shook my hand and then threw me out so he could lock up. Seems he’s got a lot of paperwork.

And why did the service start at 9.07?

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