This morning, I woke up with one very clear thought in my head.
Should Synod one day offer financial compensation to those distressed by women bishops or gay priests, I would immediately contact 'The Sun' and urge them to employ the services of a couple of young, flimsily clad starlets, and get them to stand outside Church House or wherever, handing out tracts expressing my annoyance.
This afternoon, I met a couple of stalwart parishioners outside a local supermarket. They had now become churchwardens in the absence of any other candidates. They asked what I was up to, so I relayed my conversation with the Bishop who had told me that I had to leave on 14th May.
"Have you anywhere to go?" they asked.
“No, I haven’t”, I replied.
They seemed sympathetic and part of me does enjoy the martyr complex that goes with the territory. Am I going to become unbearable I wonder?
An afternoon spent wandering around the town looking for properties to rent resulted in a top floor flat that I could have for just £425 pcm, of course there’s a £645 deposit to cough up as well. It’s the best on offer but hopeless as I have just a paltry £100 to spend. I also came across a cleaning job that offered £140 pw. This could be a way of paying for my accommodation as the hours are weekday mornings, thereby leaving me enough time to earn other money to support myself. After much humming and hahing I ring the number I had copied down from the Newsagent’s window. A man answers . I explain my intention.
“The lady you need to talk is not here at the moment, she’ll be back tomorrow morning”, he says.
Didn’t I just know that she wouldn’t be there.
Back home, I open the French Windows into the back garden and stand admiring the sunshine lighting the garden. Nothing feels real – I still believe that something will turn up. Perhaps the Property Department will suggest that I can move to a Diocesan flat or something for a month or two until I get myself sorted. They’re Christian folk after all.
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