Walls of Jericho – Church Mag June

Remember my imaginary bazooka I told you about in May’s ish? Well last week on my walk home from the dole shop, I accidentally blew up a black Lexus. What can I say? Sorry, mate, I mistook it for a BMW.

Bas hospital’s Snappy Snaps department told me I have pre-proliferative retinopathy. Time for an eye test, methinks.

Book us an appointment, would ya Ken? Next time it could be a bus.

Walking. It’s good for us. Good for me, certainly. On the day of this month’s magazine deadline I was walking up the hill to the pub when a man greeted me as he overtook me on the footpath. I didn’t quite hear what he said as I had my music on, but it seemed that he knew me. I returned the greeting cheerily, wondering all the time who he was. Someone from St. Mary’s maybe. Shortly after, a retired dentist pulled his car over to the kerb and offered me a lift to church. He said that he knew it wasn’t far now, but I was welcome. I replied that I’d love a lift, but that the exercise was good for me.

So much for a sneaky pint while Jezebel’s back was turned. I like to live up to people’s expectations (or is that down in my case?) so I had to sacrifice the pleasure of fermented barley malt and hops and duly arrived at church for the nine o’clock service.

Foiled again, but I had timed myself and I had gone door to door in 25 minures. That shaved 5 minutes off my previous middle aged best, so walking to sign on once a fortnight has paid off.

To think I used to push Cainetta up that hill in her pram when I was young. Then again, walking from Roseberry Avenue where I lived then meant I didn’t hit much in the way of gradient until I got to the Triangle shops.

As for who that feller that said hallo on the walk up was, he wasn’t among the St. Marys congregation, so I’m none the wiser. If, by any chance, sir, you happen to be reading this, my apologies for any puzzlement I may have unwittingly displayed. If, however, you are an urban myth, I will happily perpetuate the story of the day the mysterious stranger with a Tesco bag vanished into thin air before my very eyes on the site of the great Laindon gas main explosion of 1937.

After the service, where I had made a new friend and discovered (small world) he lives near Cainetta and therefore walked twice the distance I did, Gregg’s auntie stopped to offer me a lift back down the hill. Once more, I declined on the basis that the exercise was good, but it is nice to know folk take pity on the least of God’s servants.

My grateful thanks to everyone concerned. Oh and Colin, the secret of your comment about the dormouse survey is safe with me.

Did anybody spot my eror in last month’s article? I thought it was a completely clean offering in May, but it’s only as I’m overtyping it with Jun’es piece that I saw it for myself. Award yourself double Tesco points if you see it.

I’m Ben Jericho. The only connection between this month’s drawing and life in Langdon Hills is that it has rained a lot this week while all the May sermons have been about Noah (Hollywood doesn’t need advertising when the Church of England goes into action). That and the Bradwell beach BBQ Jez and I went on one Sunday instead of to St. John’s when the heavens opened just as the first burger was ready.

See you next month. Shalom.

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