Fuming Once More...

Solomon did not have an easy time of it when called to judgement. Neither sometimes do Rectors.

Simon Jr., undertaker to the village, has never felt much neighbourly love for Andrew the ironmonger. Nor, in fairness, has Andrew for Simon. (I have heard that their mutual antagonism dates back to an early primary school playground incident where both had pined - surely too young for such things - for a certain Hazel - now long since moved away - their pre-pubescent rivalry, though mutually thwarted she preferring a third boy altogether, having blossomed - if that is not too fair a word for such rank a growth - into an indwelling adult hatred no amount of Xtian preaching on the significance of the Second Commandment - my contribution to social cohesion of course - could shift.)

By unhappy fate, these two antagonists have their respective trade emporiums next door to one another in the High Street. (You might not think that, apart from a certain chilly micro-climate, this would be the cause of much friction, the two trades being essentially separate. You would though be wrong.)

They are - the trades - distinct indeed, but it has come to my attention that Andrew Ironmonger has found a distorted if genius way to taunt Simon Undertaker and that it is on this 'harassment' as Simon sees it I am being now asked judge and decide.

Happy would I be to leave civic authorities to arbitrate on civil matters, but though the one has indeed appealed to the Council, the Council has replied to the one that it is none of their business. Which is fairness and statute it isn't.

So what then is the matter in hand that drives me tonight in search of a solution?

It is this. Andrew Ironmonger has taken to arranging certain items of his stock on his - lawful - frontage that intend - and clearly they do if you were to see them - to mock the trade of his lifelong rival. He has placed dustbins with a chimney - for the burning of domestic rubbish - not merely hard against his - again lawful - fence, but also directly beneath the boarded sign that advertises Simon's serious services.

You'd have to see it to see it, as it were, but the message is clear: "Don't be paying over the odds for a pompous and costly traditional funeral. Buy one of my dustbins and have a do-it-yourself cremation at home."

The sleight is intended, the sleight is irksome and - in truth - the sleight is hugely funny. (Please, please don't tell Simon I said that!)

Simon has been round this evening to pour out - over an empathic malt - his woe. "Can't you do something Vicar to make Andrew see the error of his way and come to repentance?" (This appeal to core Xtian values is undoubtedly genuine on Simon's part, he who has always leaned to a rather lean view of Xtian love - oodles of justice and nary a spit of mercy - but it cuts little gospel ice with me.)

"I will ask the Lord in prayer", I reply, which is my way of cutting short any awkward, nay tedious, conversation. (No one could object to any such statement from a Rector.)

So, what shall I say to Simon tomorrow? Having, of course and actually, prayed about the matter?

Firm purpose of amendment tonight - do not on any account burst out laughing!