The one-time view from my bedroom window...
This morning I drove to Wilmslow, to pick up a treacle tart from the Cheshire Smokehouse, finding my usual Friday employment temporarily cancelled. Thus it was that I drove to Chorlton with a car smelling like a very upmarket bakery, with three loaves cooling in the back seat and a tart attempting, against the odds provided by the hot weather, to set. I saw one of the Nazgul fly overhead, on it's way to York to circle around the General Synod, whispering 'come to Mordor, Baggins', or something like that and shortly afterwards I saw the four PEV's of the apocalypse flying down the M60 on their elven horses, the swords of truth and croziers wrought of dwarf-gold shining in the preternatural light. The very ground was shaking as hundreds of evo-trolls, a devilish new tribe born of Saruman the Wise's tower at Langham Marsh marched down the Kingsway, grunting passages from the more pedantic parts of the Old Testament as they went by, their wrists very straight, waving copies of the Thomson Travel guidebook to Central Africa. Finally went a spectre of great terror, from the Put-Nee tribe, preceded by two enormous hags wearing tall tea cosies and being chased by a genie called Robinson, who came out of the lamp some years ago.
Well, OK, I made all that up, in fact I went to the Butchers and bought some beef before coming home to put the tart in the fridge like a sensible person. I did, though, take a couple of pictures of Chorlton, which I reproduce here for you. I used to live there and always feel a slight pang of regret when I visit again, but only very slight. St Clements, the Anglican Church, is still in interregnum, looking for a new Vicar to replace St Hilary of Barber, the previous incumbent who is proving a hard act to follow. St John's over the road used to have, a long time ago, a mitred Monsignor, who was a great draw. It is a beautiful Church, well worth a visit. Anyway, I'm off to sit in the garden and read the Church Times, awaiting news of Synod.