Diary of a Sociopathic Vicar – Part 43

It is surprising how much you can glean about a person by studying their bookcase. For this reason, I am most careful about what books I allow to be seen in my study. Each is carefully chosen to create an appropriate impression, while I keep my Biggles collection in my bedroom. For example, there are a number of different translations of the Bible with commentaries; books in Latin, Greek and Hebrew; books on social justice and equality; reports from the United Nations on developing nations... All are handled enough to show that I have read them.

I use my bookshelves to convey a message – that I am a serious but caring vicar who will one day make the ideal Archbishop of Canterbury.

The bookcases of Mordred “of the family Williams” conveyed a message, although not intentionally. As I was waiting for him to fetch me a cup of tea, I studied his books. The message conveyed was that Mordred was a fruit cake who enjoyed conspiracy theories. Titles such as “You FO’s”, “The Alien Abduction Survival Guide”, “The Freeman’s Magna Carta”, the works of Blavatsky… Then I found an entire shelf devoted to lost continents. It has always seemed to me that misplacing an entire continent must be an act of monumental carelessness. Still, with this little collection he could probably rewrite current theories on plate tectonics.

I was wondering whether I could utilise this interest in tackling the Sons of Jesus Lemurian when he returned with the tea.

“Ah, I see you’re browsing my books,” he said.

“Yes, indeed. You have most eclectic interests.”

“Why, thank you!” Mordred replied, shuffling from foot to foot in pleased embarrassment.

“I notice you don’t seem to have any fiction on your shelves.”
Of course, it would be reasonable to argue that his entire library was fiction, but that would have been unnecessarily confrontational.

“I find that there is so much in the multiverse to understand that I have little time for stories.”

“I also notice that you don’t appear to have any of the books I’d commonly associate with a Reader.”

“Oh, I just generally look that stuff up online.”

“Including the Bible?”

“Yes, there’s some rather interesting translations, which are far more interpretive than the normal versions.”

I nodded and sipped my tea. It was repulsive. “Now, Mordred, I think that perhaps we need to reset our relationship.”

By the expression on his face, it was clear that he was expecting something like this but wasn’t sure how it would go.

I continued, “I find that you’ve had difficulties in other parishes as a Reader.” Now he was all ears. I don’t think that he expected that vicars would talk to each other, which shows a lack of imagination. “Many of them question why you’re a Reader at all. Personally, I believe it would be a waste to just boot you out. I think that a little adjustment is all that is necessary.”

“What do you mean by adjustment?” Mordred asked.

“You do things my way, and you do them when I say. I have said this to you before.”

“And if I choose not to?”

“Other vicars have been content to allow you to become someone else’s problem. I’m not. It will end here. But I’d far rather it started here. If you start here, then you could be an exceptional Reader. It’s all or nothing.”

I neglected to mention in what way he might be exceptional, instead watching him slowly sigh and nod. I continued, “You might be interested to know that Psycho has just put himself forward as a candidate for Readership. He will be a valuable addition to the Church in many ways. I expect you to support him.”

I put my teacup down and walked to the door.

“As always, it’s your choice,” I said as I let myself out.

I walked down the street reflecting that it is always difficult to know how someone will react after meetings like this. This is particularly true of people like Mordred who are a sandwich short of a picnic. Yet I think I’d got the correct tone, and I’d learnt considerably about him from his reading interests.

After Mordred, I had to visit Violet Johnson. She’s an old faithful member of the church, and it is probably kindest to say that she has a different outlook on life to most parishioners. The outlook of most parishioners is that she’s a complete loony. Granted, she believes that there are fairies at the bottom of her garden, and she believes that everything, even food packaging and plates have personalities. Granted also that she walks around her house talking to the furniture. Yet I feel it is probably better to consider her sanity as differently enabled rather than absent. Certainly, I prefer her company to that of Mordred, and the patience I show her wins me no end of commendation within the church.

“Oh, David,” said Violet, “I am so glad that you’re here.”

“How can I help you, Violet?”

“It’s my hair rollers.”

“Really? And what is the problem with them?”

“Perhaps it’s best if I show you,” she said, holding open the door to the kitchen.

She followed me and took a shortbread tin from the kitchen table. It was one of the presentation boxes you see a lot of at Christmas, complete with an embossed picture of a Scottish piper in full uniform. She opened it, revealing a collection of hair rollers. I will freely admit that the use of hair rollers is outside my skill set, but they looked like perfectly respectable hair rollers to me.

Satisfied that I had been allowed the opportunity to examine the rollers, she closed the box and put it back on the table.

“Now these are ones that I bought from Asda yesterday,” she said, showing me a row of rollers on her welsh dresser.

I clasped my hands behind my back and bent over them. After what I guessed was the appropriate amount of peering, I straightened up, wondering what the problem was.

“You see?” Violet said. “They’re fatter!”

It was true – the new hair rollers were perhaps a millimetre or two wider. If it had been anyone other than Violet, I would have pondered technical issues such as would the rollers produce the required curl? But this was Violet Johnson, who anthropomorphised everything. I had to look at it from the perspective of a sentient hair roller.

“You are concerned that the rollers in the tin might think the new rollers are fat?” I asked.

She nodded vigorously.

“Let me put your mind at rest,” I said. “Humans get fat because we eat too much and don’t exercise enough.”

Yes, I know that reality is only that simple if you sell slimming aids, but I was talking to Violet. Seeing that she had understood this concept, I continued, “But hair rollers don’t eat. Therefore, they have no concept of getting fat.”

Violet’s brow relaxed. “Oh, thank you, David,” she said, “You are so wise!”

I made modest deprecatory gestures – self-deprecation is a valuable skill for any vicar and one which I practice in front of a mirror - accepted a coffee and biscuit, then spent the next half an hour in inconsequential chatter.
I returned to the Vicarage, reflecting on how little theological college prepares a vicar for the real world. I had just finished my lunch when the phone rang.
It was the Rev. Graham Walters.

“Ah, David,” he said, “If I might ask you a question – purely hypothetical, you understand – how might one dispose of a dead body. Or two.”

Disclaimer: Rev. David Wilson appears to wilfully ignore the subjective nature of reality when assessing Mordred’s books. Until we can allow the creative interpretation of reality to overrule the hidebound scientific mindset, a true understanding of the ancient ones will continue to elude us.

A map of Sutley may be found here:
https://kevinwoodauthor.com/SutleyMap.htm