Country Living - parishes and people

And so I went off to live in the countryside. And tried to be Staffordshire's answer to whatever vicar Ambridge had got. I think it was a handicapped, black lesbian last I heard, so maybe I could never compete. Right up to the end the struggle continued with the usual rows and splits and accusations. I was simply “The Rector”, never seen as a person in my own right. In other words church as usual.

There were four churches – three listed, one Victorian. Two needed roofs replacing, all needed new heating systems. Two had full sound systems, one a loop only, one nothing. Four churchyards with overgrown trees. Two choirs. Two schools and four village halls and a handful of local trusts. All in all there were all the ingredients for a lengthy soap opera. Local conflicts; rivalries that went back years; struggles for control and dominance that would have made JR blench.

At the interview they had asked how I would cope with conflict. I pointed out that most conflict in churches is about nonsense and I would try to get people to realise how ridiculous they really were. Sadly some people never manage to see that. And don’t realise the damage they are doing. I never dared point out to one of the worst offenders that my mother wouldn’t have spoken to him because he had been “in trade”.

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Country Living

I went off to the country, not expecting an easy time, but at least having some fields to look out on. And that bit worked.

As I arrived all sorts of things that could go wrong did, and a few that couldn't go wrong also did. No surprises there for anyone who has moved. None of the phones worked - one simply refused to switch back on, the other lost all its displays but still received and made calls - they were fine when I left West Bromwich. Ironically BT connected the line, with the number they told me not to give out. The TV signal was virtually non-existent, the shower, which looked new, leaked but didn't produce any more water than a drip. And so it went on. All part of the delight of moving house – and this was my 20th.

The move though went smoothly, which was nice. The movers were packed and gone in three hours; and moved and unloaded in another three. So there was plenty of time to get round to the Bell for supper. On my way there I took a short cut through the churchyard and bashed my knee on an unseen gravestone. No one seems to have thought to put a light on the end of the church.

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