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St. James the Least
Happily, the Church of England still retains some singular parish clergy. Take the parish of St James-the-Least in the county of C- for example. Here the elderly Anglo-Catholic vicar, Eustace, continues his correspondence to Darren, his nephew, a low-church curate recently ordained...
Letter from St James the Least of All – On dealing with summer fetes
The Rectory St. James the Least of All
My dear Nephew Darren
So you are soon to experience your first Summer Fete in your new parish. That you appear to be looking forward to it shows how little you know about them. Parishes hold Summer Fetes so that their clergy can preach more meaningfully on purgatory.
Their ostensible purpose is to raise money for the church - which is wholly illogical. The parish could double the money raised if the Fete were dropped, none of the endless preparations made, if everyone spent a pleasant afternoon in their own gardens and each person simply donated £20 to the church instead. But we still feel obliged to go to endless trouble, making ourselves miserable so we can show each other what a good time we are having. That it generally pours seems to make the entire event even more grimly satisfying.
No, the real reasons for a Summer Fete are twofold. First, it gives the entire parish the chance to inspect the Rector's garden. Whatever state it is in, it will cause disapproval. If it is poorly kept, then I am clearly being ungrateful for having three acres of lawn to enjoy. Mowing it each week should be one of my delights; what else would I do with a whole day off each week anyway? The hand mower, kindly given by Colonel French is assumed to be quite adequate - and rumour has it that I need to lose weight anyway. The mower was presented to me when the Colonel bought his own gardener a sit-on motor mower - which is of a size and opulence that makes me assume it has a drinks cabinet and satellite navigation.
The second reason for a Fete comes as a special perk for the organisers. It gives them a chance to inspect the inside of the Rectory. Under the pretence of looking for a little more sugar, they can systematically inspect all the kitchen cupboards and comment on their contents. By the end of the day, the whole parish will know what marmalade breakfast on, that I use unnecessarily expensive washing powder, and where I have unsuccessfully tried to hide the gin.
The details of what then happens while the Fete is in progress must wait until my next letter, when we will have had our own. It is now time for Evensong, drinks with Major Mallet and his wife, and then a quiet evening with a good book, while I toy with other possible hiding places for the gin this year.
Your loving uncle,
Eustace.
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