Tuesday, 29 August 2017

Thought for the Day, with Justin Webly, more or less Arch of Cant

Hullo, Justin here,

Well, I return to you thoroughly refreshed after an exciting week brass rubbing in the wilds of Norfolk – or parts of it might have been Lincolnshire, or even East Anglia – its hard to tell over there, sometimes.
But I was accompanied as ever by the young man with the wire in his ear who, whilst unimpressed by the burial places of our unsung forefathers and indeed, local wildlife, did do all the driving – in his apparently armoured 4x4 – and arranged all our overnight lodgings, these last all possessed of “a good field of fire” from bedroom windows. The young man with the wire in his ear assured me that he was “carrying”.
We were on our way to St Botolph’s-in-the-Mire, effectively guided by the vehicle’s satnav system, when I spotted something remarkable . I’ve never really understood satnav but the young man with the wire in his ear tells me that its is based on near-space triangulation achieved by satellites, whatever that means. Personally, I trust in God above for my geographic direction.
However, what did I spot? Only a male Sturrock’s Reed Wobbler! Whilst I’m not a fully-fledged Twitcher, I am very keen on identifying our feathered friends. Reed Wobblers of either sex are rare and difficult to see, and this little chap was actually busy wobbling a reed so I was delighted to be able to tick him off in my copy of Mr Oddie’s excellent book, “Unremarkable Little Brown Birds with Daft Names”.
Quite frankly, St Botolph’s was rather disappointing. I had hoped to take rubbings of the gravestones of Sir Denzil and Lady Maude Peover [died 1454 and 1460 respectively] but sadly the whole area, just south of St Botolph’s transept, is now covered by St Botolph’s Ye Olde Teashoppe, an initiative taken by the very young present incumbent. I don’t think he recognized me, but I did take him to task about the situation. He told me that the past is past and that for him, God is a Now thing and latte is cool. What would Jesus have done?

On my return home I found my lady wife in a very depressed state because of Andy Murray’s injury and Johanna Konta’s defeats at somewhere abroad. She had resorted to a bottle of Gribley’s Whizzbang Tonic Wine and seemed unimpressed by my Reed Wobbler. Such is life.
And now, dear friends, I must turn my attention to next year’s State visit by the President of the United States. There is much planning to do.
From what I know of him, Mr Trump seems to be – and I must choose my words very carefully here – a bit of a chump. The young man with the wire in his ear called him a “ definite knobhead”, whatever one of those is.

Nonetheless, the young man with the wire in his ear is very excited by the prospect of co operating with the President’s security arrangements. As he said to me as I was crossing St Botolph’s off my rubbing list, “Some of those guys carry TWO Ruger .375s !” He is also beginning a review of yours truly’s personal protection. I am not looking forward to wearing a lead-lined cope. But we must do what we must do.

Pip, pip,

Yours truly


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