mystical contours of reality

Lingering in the forward pew asking God for things.

The church empties.

Timelessness passes.

I linger a bit more because I don't wish to give any interviews this evening.

Then I leave.

As I exit into the rain a shadowy figure leaps forward and seizes my lapels.

It is Cousin Hector, the phantom of the organ loft.

"That lot in there haven't got a clue about anything," he exclaims gesturing in every direction at once.

"Hector for crying out loud, you've got some skin there," I cried.

The bit about a fellow grabbing your lapel and getting some skin is a Woody Allen line which I've always wanted to deliver though not for real.

Hector released me but remained uncomfortably close and verbal.

"They're not heating the church during the day," he ranted conversationally. "I've told them the organ will be damaged but they won't listen. And as for the roof. They're going to let it fall in before they do anything about it."

His ranting took in the priests, the parish, the price of fish.

This is what I'd been trying to avoid by lingering holefully in pew numma one.

Boy can that man rant.

Nought to sixty in ten seconds.

As his peroration continued, I was thinking to myself: Don't insult him. Don't turn your back on him. Don't walk away from him. Steady James old boy. I'm not hiring for new enemies at the moment. And I've never insulted Hector in my life. That's one of my few lasting achievements. Don't blow it. Just stay calm.

I dimly became conscious that he was prodding me in the chest and that he'd lit upon a new theme.

"They should introduce paid parking," he rumbled. "Instant revenue. But oh no. And we should be liaising with other parishes. In a few years there won't be any priests. When it's too late, they'll have to admit I was right. And I'll tell you what. You can put all this in that blog of yours."

My face lit up with a somewhat paradoxical bemusement.

"Hector," I said frankly, "if you tell me I can write about you on the blog, I'm going to write that since Mrs Von Horst, the old battle axe  of the Remove, gave up control of the organ loft, power has driven my cousin Hector completely insane. And I'm going to add that when my Uncle Scutch was alive, at least Hector was somewhat kept in his box. But now with the Uncle dead and nice guys running the parish council and Mrs Von Horst in retreat, he's like Django Unchained."

This took the wind our of his sails for a full micro second.

Then he was off again ar nos na gaoithe as we do say in the Gaelic language.

The words came thick and fast.

I was no longer taking it in.

I was mostly still just focussed on my act of will not to insult him, not to turn my back on him and not to walk away from him.

Presently I noticed things had gotten quiet.

Hector was peering at me challengingly.

"What do you think?" he said.

I took the opportunity to make some mollifying sounds.

"Be gentle with the priests," I said. "They're getting it from all angles."

Hector threw his hands in the air and took the Lord's name (in vain I think) before bawling right in my face "You're the same as all the rest," turning his back on me and stomping away.