Determined churchwarden

Pretty churches dominate the life of small villages, and Botley is no exception. Panic flashed through my brain as I walked along the narrow footpath, with railings to the left and unseen juggernauts hurtling by to my right and from behind. In front, heading towards me was the female churchwarden with a slightly mad glint in her eye - oh dear, she's on a mission, but this was swiftly overtaken by the thought that Silas, the mad albino monk from Opus Dei, was not nearly so scary.

Perhaps I should always carry crucifix and garlic, but that would send out the message I had joined the evangelical wing of the Church of England. Do I really want the vicar resplendent in canary coloured shirt, strumming his guitar to some happy clappy ditty? Perhaps not. So just have to take the punishment like a man.

Too much to hope for The Rapture right now - when, according to End Timers, faithful Christians will be swept up to heaven without warning - before the strident voice could boom forth at an increasingly high pitch.

'Have you got your tickets for the Swing Night, as they are going fast', she said. I was transfixed by her beady eye - a bit like a rabbit in the headlights of a car in a underpass with nowhere to hide.

Swing Night? I would marginally prefer a spiked cilice for a couple of hours a day.

I am sure the choice of entertainment - Swing Night, Night at the Proms, et al - is deliberately chosen to ensure the maximum amount of suffering.

There will be a price to be paid in the future for passing on the Swing Night. It gives a new meaning to Danegeld.