Diary of a Die-Hard (Apprentice) 4
Stephen Boon gives us the next instalment of life as an apprentice at St. Nicholas, Sevenoaks
I have been an apprentice at St Nick’s for over a year now, and I still don’t really know what’s going on round here. For example, I entirely failed to turn up to work this morning, having forgotten that I attend church on Fridays (as well as Sundays, obviously). Luckily I had to ring the church office about something else that I’d forgotten to do, at which point I received an earful (“I’m not angry, I’m just disappointed” etc) and realised my mistake.
I have been further humbled by the arrival of the new apprentices. In idle daydreams I had imagined them marvelling at my accumulated wisdom on subjects such as ‘how to erect a trestle table with one hand’ and ‘the greatest number of service sheets that one can cut with the guillotine in a single pass’, but it turns out that the latest model of apprentice comes with such information pre-programmed. They also seem to already know the names of everybody in the congregation, which really doesn’t seem fair. My family and I have the unfortunate habit of forgetting everyone’s names, and describing them by physical characteristics instead: “I was talking to… that woman with the terrible teeth and the voice like nails on a blackboard, and she was saying that her son – what’s his name? Not him, the fatter one… Anyway, he’s got engaged to that terribly thin girl who always looks a bit lost…”
But it’s not all bad news. One huge success I would like to tell you about is my invention of a device for cleaning the gutters. This is a job I rather enjoy, as it means clambering all over the church roofs, from whence one has a great view of the surrounding town. But until now, actually removing debris from said gutters has been a rather approximate affair – hanging onto the parapets with one hand and, with the other, vaguely wafting a stick in the direction of the muck. Occasionally small clumps of mud and grass would tip over the edge into the path of surprised parishioners, but it was far too inaccurate to be any fun. Now, however, I can scoop and drop my mud with pinpoint precision, using my device crafted from what looks like it might be a bishop’s crook (I’ll be in terrible trouble if it actually is) and the head of a trowel I found in the tool shed.
I have also enjoyed working with a new age group. I think they were about 3- to 7-year olds (between two and four feet tall, if that is more helpful). They have a disarming knack of veering between difficult theological questions and childish surrealism. We had just finished the story of Adam and Eve disobeying God when one four year-old chap piped up, “Why didn’t God deal with the snake?” “Well… he did… by sending Jesus.” “Did Jesus fight the snake?” “Not exactly.” “I’ve got a pickaxe! Raaah!” One boy in our congregation was in the car with his mother recently when out of nowhere he asked, “Mummy, why did Jesus die on the cross?” Taken aback, but very pleased, she had just started her explanation when he piped up with the other great question that had been troubling him, “Mummy… why does Superman wear his pants outside his trousers?”