Justin here. You might imagine, dear reader, my confusion and surprise at the statement by one of my predecessors that he now approves of the idea of assisted dying. The young man with the wire in his ear was alerted by my anguished cries of “Oh golly-gosh!” and when I briefly explained the reason for my concern, he immediately set about making a list of suitable candidates which included the Prime Minister, a Mr Roy Hodgson, the entire cast of The Archers and Peppa Pig. Of course, I quickly told him that those offered assisted dying had to be terminally ill in the first place. The young man with the wire in his ear said that he or any one of his colleagues could arrange that.
I felt that I would rather mull the issue privately; to find out what Jesus would have done – I mean, after all, Our Lord didn’t go about the place knocking off the sickly, did he? Quite the contrary, he miraculously re-arranged the alive/dead/alive situation for Lazarus, did he not? So I deftly changed the subject and asked him what he thought of England’s record-breaking last wicket stand at Trent Bridge. He merely grunted (he hates cricket) and strode away down the garden to assist my lady wife who had got herself entangled in the hosepipe during a bit of early watering.
This left me free to pray and ponder. I call it prayondering. I confess that I remain confused and unsure about Lord Carey’s statement, although I have made decisions about certain imminent events. Next month sees our annual Palace Flower Show. This year I am determined to avoid the debacle of 2013 when the winner, Delroy “Blades” McGuffie was shown to have purchased his winning bouquet from the nearby Esso filling station. The young man with the wire in his ear has access to some sort of technical device which can detect artificial dye, so he will be on this year’s judging panel as will my lady wife who has promised to stay awake.
And I look forward very much to the annual inter-parish co-denominational cricket match. Like last year’s flower show, the 2013 match was marred, it has to be said, by some idiosyncratic umpiring decisions by our Papist brothers. Normally, a good length ball, delivered within the crease, which avoids the batsman and removes all three stumps would be given OUT. Under the eagle eye of Father Desmond d’Eath -18 stones and six foot seven - this situation when applied to his own batsmen was decreed NOT OUT. They went on to win . Five hundred runs for one wicket (Father deEath) in 20 overs. This year I am keen to avoid this sort of thing, though I know not how. The young man with the wire in his ear suggested that as quite a few of the players are not in the spring of their lives, a little long-distance assisted dying might be advisable. I really must grasp the nettle in his regard. I believe he means well. But certainly not to everybody.
So, on with the spiritual struggle...