Cometh The Hour...

...cometh it now seems the dread presence of Fr. William and his cohort of Inquisitors. Had rather hoped that when the planned and dreaded Diocesan Inspection had to be postponed following that nasty yet blessed leg injury to Fr. Henry at Easter, requiring Fr. Bill to divert to Lourdes not The Wolds (far better for his soul and my spirit), I should be spared until the next roster of DIs would be drawn up.

Even hoped that that itself might not be until just before the sudden, unexpected - though not unanticipated - sounding of the Last Trump, whence all would be called to account for far greater matters than merely the audit of the parish coffers. Sadly though 'tis not to be, so unless Our Blessed Lord sees fit to end this temporal world by Friday the week following next - and who knows? - that day will see Bill and his sharp cronies swarming all over us, with the eager ears and eyes spying on our every little move.

H is none too thrilled either as she and E have open-ended summer plans to shop and party - respectively - now that the end of dread GCSEs are but a day away. Both, however, will be needed as stout labourers in the vineyard of probity as I seek to lay my - our - hands on all the requisite paper work.

'Tons of paper, my boy, begin with tons of paper. That'll keep 'em quiet for the first day or two.' Thus wisely spoke Old Father Timothy, first PP when self just a green cleric in harness. He would open the very rectory door carrying several pounds of heavy files as a welcoming gift to the intruding inspectors.

I of course have vast quantities of paperwork about the place. Can't hardly move for boxes of the stuff - all terribly relevant to someone, somewhere, somehow no doubt - just can't at this precise point be confident I know what is where. Simply can't afford to find one's hilarious pastiche of Bishop Tom's stuffy sermonising popping out of a bundle of receipts for roof repairs for them to spot and, worse, report up high.

Winston Smith, of Orwellian '1984' fame, knew that he was doomed. O'Brien and death were surely coming, only he didn't quite know when. My state is worse then that even poor Winston's. I not only know they will come. I know when. Friday the 29th it is then. Doomsday of a kind.

Rats! As Winston would say!