I sat next to one today. A vicar, that is. Not a cup of tea. Although I did sit next to a cup of coffee. And a vicar. The cup was mine. Not the vicar. But I digress. He spent the train journey showing his lackey / wife / sister / concubine various items he found amusing in his periodical. I have no idea if he was really reading a periodical or not, as I was FAR too busy pretending to write a crucial scene in Tom I between Tom and Vincent, whereas I was, in fact, spending yet more time trying to understand how Writer’s Cafe works.
Anyhoo. Periodicals. I’m convinced they are read by vicars. Well, somebody has to — so why not vicars? Have you got something against vicars? Are you, by any chance, a vicarist? I’ll have you know some of my best friends wear dog collars. And not all of them are furry.
Oh you get the gist. Me. Writing. Train. Vicar. Periodical. Lackey / wife / serf / Jemima Puddleduck. I made an important breakthrough today. Perhaps because some usually silent middle class gene was determined that I shouldn’t type swearwords while sitting next to the cup of coffee. Vicar! So, I spent more time than usual pondering the nature of man. As you do, while ambling through the deepest, darkest recesses of Hertfordshire on a train to somewhere vicars go.
