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Authors: Catherine Fox
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at parallel parking.
Later, when Bob has finished his meditations, they will go house-hunting. Bob is only two years off retirement. He could stay in office until heâs seventy, but being a bishop isnât that much fun these days. Far too much work, and not enough executive power. He canât move his clergy about the diocese like chess pieces, or foster favourites and give them plum livings. Nor can he spend his days harmlessly fly-fishing and writing learned monographs, and leave the running of things to his chaplain. He does not even have a chaplain. He has an inefficient but well-meaning PA inherited from his predecessor and who he didnât have the heart to sack. So Bob will retire at sixty-five.
Where will they settle? Somewhere very ordinary. They hope to find a bungalow. Walking distance to shops, library, bank, GPâs surgery. On a bus route to the hospital. He and Janet donât intend to move again after this. Theyâve observed too many people retiring â hale and hearty in their sixties â to gorgeous properties up steep village streets and precipitous steps, with no downstairs bathroom; then having to relocate in their eighties when they can no longer cope, to an area where they donât know anyone. Where they are just old, lonely people, whose history and achievements nobody cares about, driving their poor children frantic with worry. The Hootys donât want to be a pest if they can help it.
We must shortly wave them off, since their search today will take them beyond the borders of the diocese. Bob has no desire to lurk in the region and haunt the scenes of his former glory. That would be terribly bad form. Thereâs an unspoken rule in church circles that you shove off and leave room for your successor, and never allow yourself to become an alternative focus of power for the disaffected. Bob isnât in the least bit tempted to find another cathedral city to settle in, either. This is unusual, for cathedral cities attract retired bishops. They are like purple moths around a flame. What are they to do? Canât help it.
Bob drinks his Fair Trade instant, and admires the lovely garden. None of it is his work. He mows the lawn, thatâs all. But Janet is a born gardener. Sheâs pottering now with her edging tool. One of the things heâs most looking forward to about retiring is Janet having a garden of her very own. All these years sheâd been pouring her resources into something that didnât belong to her. Yes, like me and the Church, thinks Bob. Good to keep that in mind. All things come from you, and of your own do we give you. Wonât do to get too used to it. He wants to be able to hand his pastoral charge over graciously.
âReady when you are,â says Bob, to give Janet a chance to do the five last-minute things she always does, while he sits waiting in the car. He probably has time for another coffee, actually.
âOK. Five minutes?â says Janet, meaning fifteen. No point hurrying. She knows from experience that sheâll rush around, only to find heâs gone and made himself another coffee.
What Bishop Bob does not know is that his name has appeared on the list now being circulated among the members of the CNC. When the two appointments secretaries visited the diocese to consult with the locals, several people mentioned Bob as the man they would like to see as the next Bishop of Lindchester.
Ooh! Ooh! Who else is on the list? Itâs a secret, Iâm afraid. I need to protect the identity of the candidates, and the privacy of their families. Actually, I shouldnât even have told you Bobâs name is on the list. Iâm counting on your discretion here.
We leave him in his sunny garden, with the interesting thought that he might unwittingly be praying for himself.
I will not pretend to you that Father Ed is having a nice bank holiday. In a fit of righteous rage at the archdeacon, Ed had allowed the
Later, when Bob has finished his meditations, they will go house-hunting. Bob is only two years off retirement. He could stay in office until heâs seventy, but being a bishop isnât that much fun these days. Far too much work, and not enough executive power. He canât move his clergy about the diocese like chess pieces, or foster favourites and give them plum livings. Nor can he spend his days harmlessly fly-fishing and writing learned monographs, and leave the running of things to his chaplain. He does not even have a chaplain. He has an inefficient but well-meaning PA inherited from his predecessor and who he didnât have the heart to sack. So Bob will retire at sixty-five.
Where will they settle? Somewhere very ordinary. They hope to find a bungalow. Walking distance to shops, library, bank, GPâs surgery. On a bus route to the hospital. He and Janet donât intend to move again after this. Theyâve observed too many people retiring â hale and hearty in their sixties â to gorgeous properties up steep village streets and precipitous steps, with no downstairs bathroom; then having to relocate in their eighties when they can no longer cope, to an area where they donât know anyone. Where they are just old, lonely people, whose history and achievements nobody cares about, driving their poor children frantic with worry. The Hootys donât want to be a pest if they can help it.
We must shortly wave them off, since their search today will take them beyond the borders of the diocese. Bob has no desire to lurk in the region and haunt the scenes of his former glory. That would be terribly bad form. Thereâs an unspoken rule in church circles that you shove off and leave room for your successor, and never allow yourself to become an alternative focus of power for the disaffected. Bob isnât in the least bit tempted to find another cathedral city to settle in, either. This is unusual, for cathedral cities attract retired bishops. They are like purple moths around a flame. What are they to do? Canât help it.
Bob drinks his Fair Trade instant, and admires the lovely garden. None of it is his work. He mows the lawn, thatâs all. But Janet is a born gardener. Sheâs pottering now with her edging tool. One of the things heâs most looking forward to about retiring is Janet having a garden of her very own. All these years sheâd been pouring her resources into something that didnât belong to her. Yes, like me and the Church, thinks Bob. Good to keep that in mind. All things come from you, and of your own do we give you. Wonât do to get too used to it. He wants to be able to hand his pastoral charge over graciously.
âReady when you are,â says Bob, to give Janet a chance to do the five last-minute things she always does, while he sits waiting in the car. He probably has time for another coffee, actually.
âOK. Five minutes?â says Janet, meaning fifteen. No point hurrying. She knows from experience that sheâll rush around, only to find heâs gone and made himself another coffee.
What Bishop Bob does not know is that his name has appeared on the list now being circulated among the members of the CNC. When the two appointments secretaries visited the diocese to consult with the locals, several people mentioned Bob as the man they would like to see as the next Bishop of Lindchester.
Ooh! Ooh! Who else is on the list? Itâs a secret, Iâm afraid. I need to protect the identity of the candidates, and the privacy of their families. Actually, I shouldnât even have told you Bobâs name is on the list. Iâm counting on your discretion here.
We leave him in his sunny garden, with the interesting thought that he might unwittingly be praying for himself.
I will not pretend to you that Father Ed is having a nice bank holiday. In a fit of righteous rage at the archdeacon, Ed had allowed the
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