Forgive me for publishing yet another post about my life. If you really dislike this habit of mine, you can always vote me off this blog, either passively or actively.
I find myself compelled to go to Mass every Sunday, and on Holy Days of Obligation. There, I am surrounded by many whom I recognise, but do not actually know. They have gradually got used to seeing me too, I suppose. The problem, is that we remain strangers, week after week, because they and I return to our own little worlds, once Mass finishes. Scuttle away, we all do. I’m one of the worst culprits.
One Sunday I ventured out of my shell and laid on a parish barbecue for after the 11am Mass. Unfortunately that day, of all days, several visiting squads of Maltese schoolboy footballers turned up to Mass, then the barbecue, and scoffed the blooming lot. Few of the actual parishioners got fed at all. Somehow, it was all my fault.
After that misadventure, I have returned to scuttling.
Our new PP, who is in fact rather old and battle hardened, has launched a series of initiatives towards the men and women of the parish, aimed at encouraging group activity for the good of the parish: presbytery gardening/hard labour for the men, UCM and flowers/cleaning for the women. He has already successfully tamed the local cutleys, and sandallistas. He still has much work to do, as the parish has been left untended for some years, following a gruesome run-in between a previous incumbent and some pushy parishioners. The parish is well known as the Tartarus of the diocese, a veritable penal colony for the Bishop’s unloved.
Dear Theophilus, have you any parishioner tales, you would like to share?