Sunday School

She sounded better. Much much better. I went to the doctor, she said, he gave me some anti-biotics. Usually she is averse to them but this time she succumbed and benefited. I am glad, it is good to hear her being so bright. I’m out walking the dog, she said. Then somehow we got on to talking about Sunday School. She was animated on the subject. My grandmother was Church, my father Chapel, she said. It was a two mile walk to Church, she continued, with Sunday School in the afternoon. So to save us having to make the journey twice the vicar’s wife would make tea for the children in the Rectory. There were jellies and trifles, she continued, clearly delighted by her reminiscences. A bachelor led the classes, she said. Imagine that now. Sometimes there were three or four. It’s all changed now, the congregations are so small. Are there still Sunday Schools? I certainly went. I remember colouring books of stories from the Bible, orange squash in metal jugs and cream eggs at Easter. Cosy. Safe. She clearly thought so too. She remembered a congregation that met in someone’s house. We even had communion there, she said.

I am rushing. There’s been too much to do this morning. I hurry to complete those small, fiddly tasks and get nowhere near. But the house is clean. That is something.

No rain this morning as I walked.

The girl seemed on fire. Green emerald fire. As she got closer I saw that it was a sequinned top. Gorgeous.