Holier than I

I rang my mum recently, having just returned from a trip and she quite inconsequentially exclaimed; 'I wish yis would go to church' (she meant me and two of my sisters, she addresses her disapproving remarks globally). 'You know, if anything happened to you, it would be awful for me.' Never mind how it might be for me, suddenly killed off, in the prime of life, you might say. She was fixating on how terrible it would be for her, if I could not be pictured sailing off into what has been known in my family, since our granny's funeral, as 'the Heavenly Harbour'. On that occasion the minister had a whole nautical theme goin' on-unexpectedly this was rather comforting. My mum's generation thinks that attending church regularly is non-negotiable, if you want to anchor your vessel at the port of Jesus and eternally, er, trim your sails in the celestial hereafter. She has no truck with my claims to an intimate knowledge of Paradise Lost and a spot of spiritual contemplation while looking out of the windows of Spinster Cottages. It's a bit irksome for her too that best friend, The Brick, has her entire extended family in attendance every single week-not that The Brick is lording it over her(pun intended). The upshot was that I and an equally wayward sister were invited to a church lunch today, preceded by Morning Service.

I half expected a regal fanfare as I walked down the aisle-it has been some time, after all. However, the surroundings and many of the faces were mostly unchanged-the older generation's hair colour was 'not what God intended', which I believe is a quotation from Gone With The Wind, but this came in very handy when it came to recognising an octogenarian still sporting the flame-red hair from my recollections. There the familiarities from my youth ended. Not a hymn was to be had, for starters. The music was extraordinary-a good fifteen minutes of tuneless droning started us off, with repetitive and vulgar lyrics; 'Our God is awesome' and the like, which inexplicably sent several members of the congregation into some sort of religious ecstasy. There was eye-closing, arm-raising and at one point, I kid you not, a blue flag was waved about in the manner of Olga Korbut in the 'floor section' of the gymnastics. Then there was a puppet show, aimed at the many hyperactive children present. They enjoyed this so thoroughly that several ran up towards the pulpit, squealing, and attempted to participate before being rugby-tackled by their parents. This livened it up for me no end, I can tell you.

Then, before I could do any more sotto voce muttering about Ritalin dosage, they were treated to a terrifying monologue about Christ dying on the cross out of love for them, then packed off to Sunday School. I can only hope they were forced to quietly colour-in a comforting tableau of, I don't know, some tombs or crowns of thorns, perhaps. Speaking of youth, at this point, I became distracted by an utterly gorgeous bloke two rows up-he may have been 20 or so, I couldn't take my eyes off him-it was all very Thornbirds. Highly inappropriate, but it took my mind off the powerpoint presentation on Cleft Palates in Peru, to which we were being treated, at the time.

Next came the sermon, which was reassuringly similar to those of my younger days, that is, fairly baffling, awfully clever(good bit of business about St. Paul and the Ephesians) and still trying to pull off that blend of kindly friendliness and horrifying 'fire and brimstone' you get at most weddings and funerals in God's own country. This was topped off by another ten-minute song featuring three chords tops, two verses of ghastly over-simple lyrics and some high-pitched wailing, clearly thought to be enhancing harmony. I can't think what God would make of it, as He steers us from his lonely helm.

Tell you what, though, the lunch was tremendous-Presbyterians really know how to cater. I might book them for my next big birthday. And I've told me ma, when I buck up my ideas and become a proper churchgoer, I shall be madly traditionalist;I want proper hymns, bible readings and children being seen-and-not-heard. I realise this may mean submitting an application for a sanctified extension to Spinster Cottages. I wonder if that handsome young guy might want to join my congregation-would kill two birds...