Elevenses

“Ah yes,” said the Vicar who was slumped heavily in the old leather arm chair in the half-light of the late afternoon, his empty china tea cup resting in his right hand on the arm of the chair. His response was completely disconnected from the young parishioner whom he was counseling; in fact the Vicar had been in a drifting haze of half-consciousness and half-nap: a skill he had perfected these many years such that his occasional “Ah yes” remarks convinced the guest of his interest and attentiveness, while in fact he enjoyed a brief kip.

A light trumpeting sound emanated from the trousers of the Vicar, at which he shuffled slightly in the old chair, a move so oft practiced it was subconscious to the grey-haired cleric. The self-absorbed young guest continued with his monologue of introspection while the Vicar eyed the ticking clock on the mantle and wished for the minute hand to arrive at the top of the hour, a moment at which the youth would be politely but firmly dismissed from the parsonage with his woes bundled up in his nylon anorak, and another cup of stewed tea could be poured, along with a generous second serving of the house-keeper’s moist cake. Lovely.