Burley Cross Postbox Theft (23 page)

LOT 11

Promise made:  Tammy Thorndyke (at The Old Hall), promised a beginner’s course of five private Kundalini Yoga lessons (a type of yoga at which she apparently excels).

Purchased by:   Shoshana Baverstock (at The Retreat) was delighted to buy them.

Amount paid:   £23

Upshot:            I couldn’t really see how this transaction might go awry, Prue (more fool me!). But after only two sessions I had Tammy Thorndyke banging on my door, in floods of tears, late at night (well, some time after nine, at any rate), begging me to think of some way –
any
way – to
get her out of the promise (she even said she would refund Shoshana’s money and contribute a further £23 to the charity herself to make up for the loss). And the
reason
for this sudden reticence on Tammy’s part? Shoshana’s eczema! Tammy had developed a sudden, extreme horror of it! Apparently Shoshana insisted on doing the sessions in just a bra top and g-string (she would’ve done them
nude
given half a chance) and Tammy had become increasingly obsessed by the idea that Shoshana was ‘shedding skin’ on her shagpile carpet (‘I’ve tried vacuuming,’ she said, ‘but it just doesn’t feel like it’s nearly
enough
…’). I explained to Tammy that eczema wasn’t remotely contagious (and Shoshana’s eczema’s hardly that bad, anyhow. I’ve seen her almost naked myself on countless occasions – who hasn’t? – and there’s just the odd rough patch behind her knees and inside her elbows; hardly anything to write home about), but Tammy wouldn’t be convinced. She said the thought of Shoshana’s dead skin becoming ‘embedded in my shagpile’ was making her ‘physically ill’ (she
did
have quite a deathly pallor). ‘But how on earth are we to get out of this promise without severely hurting Shoshana’s feelings?’ I asked. Tammy didn’t have a clue. After some lengthy consideration, I decided that it might be a good idea if I approached Shoshana personally, telling her that I had heard ‘really great things’ about the health benefits of Kundalini Yoga on a recent repeat of an old episode of
Oprah
, and that I was ‘desperate’ to try it out for myself, so would she mind terribly if I offered a
contribution to the AOP Charity Fund and
joined
the classes? Oh, and then if – on that basis – we could
move the location
of the classes from The Old Hall to Tiddlers? (I told Shoshana that this was because I had bad circulation and The Old Hall would be ‘way too draughty’ for me to withstand in my Lycra.) Shoshana promptly responded by telling me that ‘Kundalini Yoga is a huge waste of time’, and that Tammy ‘doesn’t have the first idea how to teach it’. She said she was desperate to get out of the sessions but hated the idea of hurting Tammy’s feelings. So there I was, Prue, stuck between a rock and a hard place. I therefore
persisted
with my scheme (in the hope of sparing the feelings of both parties), and the next session was duly held in my cramped study at Tiddlers (Friday last): me, resplendent in my yellow striped cycling shorts and cap-sleeved tee struggling to grapple with the many intricacies of the Downward Dog as a small cassette recorder piped out the tinny sounds of trickling water and harp (not an easy union, Prue, believe me). Shoshana made
yet another
trip to the bathroom and Tammy finished a short lecture on The Importance of The Perineum, relit the strawberry incense, declared feelingly, ‘Without fresh air, even the finest fire dies,’ or ‘No one can love you, unless
you
love you,’ (I forget which), lay down on her back and commenced a frenzied interlude of Pelvic Bouncing (as I gently averted my tormented eyes). One down, Prue, two to go… May the Sweet Lord have Mercy on my Soul.

LOT 12

Promise made:  Arthur Wolf of Buck House, Old Woman’s Lane, promised to guide anyone ‘fit, bold or daft enough’ on a hike up Raven’s Peak on Kex Gill (included in this ‘package’ was a short, preparatory climbing lesson at Harehead Quarry).

Purchased by:   Penelope McNeilly of Hawksleigh House, 5 Shortcroft Road, for her niece and nephew (Astrid and Ethan Logan), who are currently resident in BC while their parents are away in London.

Amount paid:   £45

Upshot:            The hike took place a couple of weeks back and was proceeding extremely well (by all accounts) until Mr Wolf chanced to see a Red Setter darting behind some scree at the base of the peak and hared off in hot pursuit of it, leaving the two young ones stranded for over an hour (believe it or not). Arthur had determined that this Setter was the same poor, mad creature that had escaped from a car outside the public toilets and had caused chaos at Saint’s Kennels on Guy Fawkes Night. He claimed that he would ‘recognize the dog anywhere’, since it came from the same litter as his late, much beloved Nell. During his extended absence (according to Astrid – a lovely girl. Shy. Modest.
Extraordinarily
thin)
a sudden, moorland mist came down, then the heavens opened up and the two children were left without rainwear (or refreshment) because Arthur was carrying the
rucksack. Ethan has a severe hearing disorder (as you probably know) and is not to get water in his ears
at any cost
. Both young people were getting drenched and so Astrid made an executive decision to guide her brother home under her own steam (although they later turned up in Hazlewood or Middleton or somewhere equally improbable!). By the time Arthur returned
(sans
dog) they were nowhere to be seen (obviously). The two of them finally made contact with the McNeillys over five hours later (having borrowed a stranger’s phone to do so). A moorland search and rescue operation was already well under way. The whole thing was, all in all, an absolute bloody catastrophe. Arthur Wolf (for his part) swears that he didn’t leave the kids unattended for more than five minutes, tops, and that during this interlude the weather remained dry – if cloudy. Of course he has
insisted
on paying the £45 to the charity out of his own pocket, in a pathetic attempt to redeem himself, but I think it’s going to take a little more than
that
to rebuild the shattered tatters of his reputation, quite frankly.

LOT 13

Promise made:  BC’s own celebrity folk singer and storyteller: the legendary ‘Little Wren with the Big Whistle’ aka Frank K. Nebraska (as he now prefers to be called) of the beautiful Solstice (formerly Rombald House), Piper’s Ghyll Road, promised an original song to be composed in honour of the purchaser, or an individual of the purchaser’s choice.

Purchased by:   Trevor Ruddle at the
Wharfedale Gazette
. Amount paid: £475

Upshot:            Oh-ho, I’m saving the best till last, here, Prue. Trevor Ruddle bought the promise with the intention of using it as the main prize in a raffle at his newspaper, the
Wharfedale Gazette
(while doing a large article on The Little Wren and his recent move to the local area to generate reader interest). He paid a generous amount for it and we were obviously all absolutely delighted at the BCAOPC for the extra publicity this generated for us. The only spanner in the works, I suppose, was that the promise was
actually
made by Frank K.’s wife, Kizzy Nebraska, not Frank K. himself (who was off on a promotional tour of Japan at the time).
When Frank K. returned and found out about Kizzy’s promise, the famously modest and ‘down-to-earth’ star was apparently none too pleased because he is (I quote), ‘an artist, not a performing f*****g monkey, in case you hadn’t noticed’. An added layer of complexity was brought to bear on the whole scenario by dint of the fact that the subsequent winner of the raffle was a charming Sri Lankan gentleman called Murali Arulpragasam, a successful businessman (and huge Little Wren fan) who lives just outside Draughton and imports/ exports special padded underwear for a living (from his native land, which he sells all over Europe, the US and Canada). The chief function of these undergarments is purportedly to help counter the problems of excessive
flatulence. The Little Wren, who was already somewhat put out by the thought of composing a song to order, was then ‘dumbstruck’ when he found out the name he was to be expected to grapple with (especially as he is currently hard at work on
both
a new album
and
his long-awaited autobiography, which – unlike most modern-day celebrities – he is actually writing himself!).
Mr Arulpragasam has been quite amenable about the whole situation and said that he is ‘perfectly happy’ to reach some kind of a compromise with The Little Wren if The Little Wren finds his name too much of a proposition to conjure with/scan in a song. He has suggested, as an alternative, that The Little Wren writes something ‘loosely based on the issues of flatulence’ which he can then use as a ringtone on his mobile phone and as background music on his website DraughtonFlatulence.com. The Little Wren has not, as yet, responded to this idea, but I know for a fact that Trevor Ruddle is champing at the bit to run an article in the
Gazette
on the whole farrago. I literally shudder at the thought of the kind of cheesy pun he might come up with as a headline for the blasted piece.

SUMMARY

After a brief confab with Wincey, it seems that the BCAOP has raised a grand total of £3,101, but is presently in receipt of just £2,838 of that, £2,175 of which we are liable to have to return. This means our
real
running total is £663, on the
understanding that The Little Wren can manage to come out of his artistic funk. If not, then it’s £188, minus Baxter’s cleaning bill of £38 and the cost of the party food, hire of the hall, balloons, etc.

On this (somewhat pessimistic) basis I’m reckoning it at approximately £107.00, all told.

Oh… And let’s just pray that our dear Mr Conan Hopkiss Jr isn’t of an overly vindictive or litigious bent, eh?

Happy Christmas, Prue.

Please come home soon and save me from this living hell…

Yours, resplendent in Lycra,
Seb

The Rectory
St Peter’s Church
Burley Cross

20th December, 2006

Dear Reverend Horwood,

(Further to our unfortunate little ‘contretemps’ on Sunday…)

It’s not that I didn’t like the carving, as such – I think it’s a marvellous piece of craftsmanship, I honestly do – it’s just that I wished you’d consulted with me before hanging it up so prominently in the church portal. It really did give me quite a shock when I walked in, slightly behind time (you were right, I was one or two minutes late), my mind running over the Order of Service, making the odd minor mental adjustment to my sermon (as one does), and then happened across it, totally unprepared.

It blindsided me, Reverend (there’s no point in pretending otherwise). It gave me quite a turn. It threw me out of kilter.

The way I see it, the entrance to a place of worship plays an important part in establishing the atmosphere of the entire institution (it ‘sets the scene’, so to speak). As I think I said on Sunday – although perhaps not as calmly (or as articulately!) as I would have liked – St Peter’s is an Anglican church, and therefore it doesn’t feel entirely appropriate to hang a crucifix in such a prominent position, especially such a… well, a ‘powerful’ and ‘confronting’ one as that!

When I accused you of hanging it up ‘simply to provoke me’, what I really meant to say was that I am perfectly well aware of the fact that you think my general theological stance borders on the ‘High Church’ (and that this isn’t something you particularly welcome in my approach to the ministry), but I certainly didn’t mean to imply that you were trying to
undermine my work here at St Peter’s in any way (not at
all
, Reverend – perish the very thought!).

I deeply regret it if your feelings were hurt by my speaking out so candidly on the matter, especially in front of Mr Simms, Miss Logan, Mrs Bramwell, Ms Brooks and Mrs Hawkes. Such an outburst is entirely uncharacteristic of me and I have felt profoundly troubled by it ever since.

It goes without saying that I have thought and prayed about this matter a great deal over the past week, and the only conclusion I can honestly reach is that the argument between us cast more light on
my
weaknesses and insecurities than on anything else. These are qualities in myself that I certainly need to work upon, and I shall (God willing – with His grace).

On a more positive note: in some ways I’m actually quite
relieved
that the sharp exchange of words we had on Sunday brought a few things out into the open that might reasonably be said to have been ‘festering away between us’ all these long months…

a) The Candles:

I am sorry that you don’t like the candles. I can see why they might irritate you. I don’t accept that they pose a fire risk, but I do concede that they alter the atmosphere of the church, overall. I don’t think they are unduly ‘Popish’, Reverend – in fact I have had several very positive comments about them. Many parishioners seem to find a certain measure of comfort in lighting them and then using them as a direct means of focusing their thoughts and energies on a worrying problem, a sick friend, or a recently departed soul.

I have also been told that when worshippers enter the church to pray and find it unoccupied, the cheerful sight of the bank of flickering candles gives them a sense of community, a feeling that they are part of an ongoing series of conversations with the Almighty and a general, overall impression that their voice (and their predicament, more to the point) isn’t a lone one.

Last – but by no mean least – the financial contribution the candles make (I pay just under 8p/candle and ask for a contribution of 20p/candle from the parishioners)
does
add significantly to St Peter’s modest charitable armoury. Half of the money raised this year I am intending to donate to The Red Crescent, and to put the other half towards a mobile (i.e. with wheels), free-standing notice board, which I hope to use to promote local and international voluntary organizations and good causes.

b) My Cassocks:

As for my ‘ridiculous robes’, Reverend Horwood… Well, I suppose they
might
seem a touch theatrical to someone who prefers to think a sensible clergyman should always stick to the traditional black! Ultimately, I suppose, it is just a matter of personal taste. If I
do
look like a ‘big, gallumphing fairy’ in them then it’s useful for me to be aware of it, and to alter my behaviour accordingly (perhaps I should sign up for Jill Harpington’s tap and ballet classes at the village hall, and improve my deportment skills alongside the local six- and seven-year-olds! I might even try and galvanize some of the ballet mums into signing their little ones up for the new Sunday School while I’m at it!)!