One of the challenges of this whole clergy spouse malarkey is having to reinvent yourself every time your partner gets a new job.  Maybe it was simpler back in the days when clergy wives (as we all were then) had an obvious role.  That was the era of hire one, get one free.  Your husband got a new parish, you slid in beside him to rule the new flower rota with a smile and a rod of iron.  But I'm betting it wasn't that simple, even in those days. We all have our different coping strategies when our domestic world is turned briefly upside down.  Gin is an obvious one, but it has its limitations.  There is also paint.  Paint is safer than gin in most contexts.  (The obvious exception being a gin sling.)  Paint is my go to coping mechanism.  Back in April of this year*, when we first came to look round the new house, I had a brief crisis in the kitchen.  It had a built-in dresser.  'But where will I put MY dresser?' I wailed. My kitchen dresser I was disappointed

Every novel has an implied reader.  The tone of voice adopted by the narrative seems to betray that a certain kind of audience is expected.  The book jacket sometimes reinforces this unsubtly, in the manner of a Yorkie Bar: NOT FOR GIRLS .  A bold girl will read it anyway, and then find she has to navigate her way through the text's assumptions.   This was rather my experience as I read Thomas F Torrance's excellent  Calvin's Doctrine of Man, recently .   I try not to have unreasonable expectations about inclusive language in books written in the 50s.  I'm prepared to inclusive the text as I go along, but it's hard work trying to map yourself onto a different implied reader for the length of a whole book.  It's a bit like trying to use left-handed scissors if you're right handed.    I'm aware that the implied reader of my Lindchester books is Anglican.  The trilogy is a bit of a love letter to the C of E, really.  But now I stop to think, p

Last week I had a visit from my oldest friend.  Oldest, in the sense of having known me the longest.  We met at primary school when we were 6.  She was a new girl, and I was asked to look after her.  It was June.  We went home from school together and played in our garden, where we saw fairies. Or very nearly. Obviously, now we are sober middle aged women we no longer play games of make believe.  Unless you count the game of 'Can you believe we are actual grown ups?'  Bishop's wife and accountant!  It seems ludicrous.  My friend is rather dashing.  Don't be misled by the accountancy thing.  She was a bit of a hero to my boys when they were young: 'Angela, who has a big motorbike !'  She also owns a black sports car, which she can't justify.  But I can't justify my posh house, so there we are. After lunch we went for a spin.  (BISHOP'S WIVES WHO MOTOR!)  It was a rainy day, and we were on a pilgrimage to the nearby village of Dungworth, which we

Greetings from Sheffield, and welcome to my new blog.  I can't use 'Close Encounters' any more, as I no longer live on a cathedral Close.  After 11 years under the shadow of two very different cathedrals (Lichfield and Liverpool), I am now 'a bishop's spouse' in the leafy suburbs of West Sheffield.  Even with a good pair of binoculars I can't see Sheffield cathedral.  This is because it's so hilly round here.  Sheffield, as approximately two million people have informed me, is built on seven hills .  Like Rome.  Or any other city with hills. Seven is the magic number.  There must have been a memo about that. I spent quite a long time pondering the title for this blog.  I discarded 'As the Actress Said to the Bishop', along with 'Crooks and Gaiters'.  Then my eye fell on this. This 1907 volume of Home Words is the bound edition of the monthly magazine of St James', Lathom.  It contains many improving articles: pious fiction (&