Brought To Bookmaker

The Archdeacon has had what can only be described as a fulsome day.

The day began with a little light fencing on whether the current bank base rate of interest represented the triumph of evil in the modern world; it being his view that corporate greed signified Ol' Stan [as I like to call our eternal adversary] rampant, whilst mine that though capitalism by and large did stink it was - like democracy in the sphere of politics - the worst form of economics apart from all the other options available.

The day nows ends in mutual weariness, but perhaps an enhanced acceptance of the frailty of all things human.

We strolled the parish, meeting and greeting the flock on the streets, and FDH began the more earnestly to attempt to persuade me that simplicity in all things was the true mark of sanctity and that - more or less - penury was next to Godliness. I remarked that it was all very well St Francis beetling about discalced, though this was hardly practical in the modern era of smashed beer bottles and doggie pooh at every step, nor indeed fair upon the humble cobbler whose need to earn sufficient to feed his family was an essentially decent aspiration. And so we debated back and forth with seeming little occasion for shifting our respective positions.

It was though a chance remark of mine that proved the decisive moment. I happened to say of some thesis or other of his "I bet..." and no sooner were the words out of my mouth than the poor Archdeacon let rip "How much do you want to bet then?" in earnest, nay eager if not desperate, tones. The poor man could not have then blushed more if he had been caught peeing out behind the vestry and his face - unhappy fellow - crumpled into a maze of despairing anguish.

'Twould not be fitting or proper to now tell the full tale of woe I then heard from this tormented soul. If not strictly a matter of the seal of the confessional, it would not be a pleasant fellow who revealed what transpired between us. Save it to say that 'Gamblers Anonymous' was talked of and 'firm purposes of amendment', interspersed with Jungian phrases such as 'addictive personality', were mentioned on either side.

In a nutshell it seems that the Archdeacon is suffering not so much from a fear of the love of money as more a fear of money itself. He has it in his mind - and near close to his heart too - that only in rejecting anything pecuniary can he - and by extension the world - be safe from all and any temptation. To attain this pseudo-nirvanic state the Archdeacon is currently doomed to bet a losing wager with each and every last pound that comes within his personal orbit. Not content with mere charitable gifting the poor man is compelled to gamble away everything so as to strip himself of the very taint of cash. Dostoevsky would have understood all too well.

I do not claim to have reached bottom in this matter - not even of diagnosis let alone cure - but tonight I have an inkling that there is a Manichaean aspect that must be tackled at an opportune moment. This though now is not it. The Archdeacon has retired to bed if not sleep, and I have taken to the den in search of a large measure of finest malt.