"Hello Pete, it's Tom. How are the numbers?" How I hate this elision of my already short name. Always have. It's my shibboleth for deciding not to like or trust a person. Puts me then in an awkward situation as this is my Bishop on the telephone, in his usual crisp best Birtist manner demanding to know how many people attended Evensong and whether I'm meeting our MTP - Modified Target Projection [or Money For Tom's People as Helen calls it].

I did once over sherry drop a hint to Bishop Thomas that I doubted "St. Pete" would much care for such a name calling, but it must have been too subtle for BT [our small linguistic revenge] as the habit continues unabated.

As for the numbers, well of course they are like Lords at Christmas - leaping. And just as Christmas itself seems to begin earlier and earlier each year until one doesn't even know if it's this or the next year that people are planning for, so the rush to join Family Communion in order to secure a place for Arthur or Benjamin or Emily at the local Church primary school begins with a rip-tide seemingly before the last one has receded.

In the Good Old Days you'd see them at baptism and then not again until three weeks after the wee lad or lass had begun school - "Just to show willing" as one parent put it with bald frankness. But with cuts and competition everyone now is keenly aware of the need to be well up the ladder of piety in order to stand a chance of gaining a precious entry place.

Won't pretend I'm entirely uneasy about this rational if clearly hypocritical rush to the altar rail. I can work my Xtian magic on any soul that comes within range of my public ministry, whatever the motive that brought them. But - and this is I own truly sad - my main rejoicing is not in Lost Sheep returning to the fold, but in being able to Count Sheep in order to keep the Bishop off my back.

Helen, bless her, stands at the back of the Church as they dutifully file in and file out on a Sunday morning, with one of those mechanical counters clicking away with gusto so that they can hear they have been tallied off. 'Click, click' - Martha and Fred hoping for a school place for cousin Michael. Michael's own parents can't spare time from milking to come themselves, so are sending family instead. [Piety by proxy - not sure this is sound theology, but we'll let it pass for now.] 'Click' - Adam whose wife has run off to the Caribbean leaving him to bring up Simone alone. He'll not fail to find a place for the little half-orphan; that I can - though of course I cannot openly - assure him. 'Click, click, click' - seems a little generous to Edith and Bruce. She is after all only pregnant, but then let's call this a click in potentia. [One more towards the dread Target anyway - who would have thought cheating came so easily?]

"The numbers are well above interim medium projection levels, Your Grace," I can, therefore, happily reply to Tom's brusque enquiry. Steady yet pointed emphasis on his proper ecclesial title - which I know pisses him off greatly. Wouldn't dare do it if numbers were low. [An adjunct to the Theory of Large Numbers methinks.]

And so to the parish rounds.