The Road Less Cobbled

Our "Recreating Olde Englishe Christendom" service maybe didn't go how we planned, but it was a cracking evening's entertainment all the same.

Maiden aunts cycling to the Moot House through the evening (fake) snow and (dry ice) mist came a right cropper. Well, cycling maiden aunts aren't best suited to cobbles. Aggie completely lost control in a skid on the frozen cobbles, sent a side of Morris Men flying in all directions, through the doors of the Rose and Crown, and smashed into the vicar, out for a pre-Christmas dry sherry with a bunch of chirpy Cockernees who were drinking warm beer while wearing pearly outfits.

Little suspecting the arrival of an out-of-control maiden aunt

Of course, when the (closeted) vicar shouted in pain, his lover the blacksmith ran over to comfort him. A shock to the bishop, who was having a dry gin prior to leading a confirmation service for all choirboys whose voices had broken by the 1st Sunday in Advent. Since they could no longer hold a treble line and therefore had no use in the choir, the assumption was that they might as well be confirmed, then they could have a clear conscience when they never came to church again. On the discovery that the vicar had been outed, the bishop had no alternative but to call in a bunch of bobbies on bicycles, two by two, to organise the traditional nine lessons, tarring and feathering by candlelight. Then he retired to the Lodge, leaving an army of old wives to use their folk remedies to patch up the maiden aunts, Cockernees, vicar and blacksmith.

Ah, what we have lost.