Newsletter one hundred and thirty nine
Nov. 27th, 2015 12:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
charlie_cochraneAlmost Advent, although you wouldn’t think it from the mild weather. Will my lobelia ever twig that it’s not summer any more so they don’t need to flower?
News
Do you fancy winning £200 worth of books in time for Christmas? If so, get your name into the Killer Christmas draw. Only ten days left.
During the next few newsletters I’ll highlight some of my seasonal reads, starting with The Shade on a Fine Day, which features a heartwarming (I hope!) gay Regency romance and the politest ghost in the (other) world.
Excerpt:
The church bells rang out into the December night - they’d been pealing for an hour now, working through one of the intricate set of changes so beloved of the curate. William Church may have only come to St. Archibald’s at midsummer, but he’d already inspired his flock with his love of campanology, so much so that the dormant art of change ringing had been reintroduced, and the old set of bells had sprung into new and glorious life. They quivered with joy, sending a sweet sound into the frosty air that said, ‘Come and worship.’ His intention was for God to be venerated, but the ladies of Blaydon, tucked away in the recesses of Hampshire, had other ideas in mind when it came to the object of adoration.
It was just as well that the incumbent, Canon Newington, wasn’t a jealous man, or else he might have been envious of the number of enraptured faces filling the congregation when his young curate preached at evensong. The rector was pragmatic about the favourable ambience a late summer’s evening could produce, and amused that many of the congregation, the ones who showed most delight, were the spinsters among his flock. Girls of no more than fifteen through to old maids of seventy, who should have known better. He supposed it was the effect of the setting sun on Mr. Church’s golden locks, or the mellifluous sound of his voice against a background of birdsong and the lowing of the cattle in the water meadows, which enhanced the man’s already numerous attractions.
“Just you wait until the days shorten, my dear,” he told his wife after one particular sermon had been punctuated with sighs and simpering from the pews. “The cattle will all be milked by the time comes for evensong, there’ll be no rooks cawing in the elms, then the audience for Mr. Church’s monthly homily will diminish.”
“If I were the sort of woman who lays bets, I’d wager you that you’re wrong. Hopelessly so.” Mrs. Newington produced her wide, handsome grin. “His attraction for the ladies of your parish won’t wane with the daylight. The same string of eligible young women will continue to tread a path, deep and wide, to the door of Mr. Church’s lodgings.” If she’d stooped low enough to be a betting woman, she’d have won her wager fair and square. The hay was gathered in, the equinox passed and young women still arrived bearing cakes and comforters, and other delights for the curate’s delectation.
And finally...
Thinking of the last time we had proper snow and wondering if we’ll get any this winter.
News
Do you fancy winning £200 worth of books in time for Christmas? If so, get your name into the Killer Christmas draw. Only ten days left.
During the next few newsletters I’ll highlight some of my seasonal reads, starting with The Shade on a Fine Day, which features a heartwarming (I hope!) gay Regency romance and the politest ghost in the (other) world.
Excerpt:
The church bells rang out into the December night - they’d been pealing for an hour now, working through one of the intricate set of changes so beloved of the curate. William Church may have only come to St. Archibald’s at midsummer, but he’d already inspired his flock with his love of campanology, so much so that the dormant art of change ringing had been reintroduced, and the old set of bells had sprung into new and glorious life. They quivered with joy, sending a sweet sound into the frosty air that said, ‘Come and worship.’ His intention was for God to be venerated, but the ladies of Blaydon, tucked away in the recesses of Hampshire, had other ideas in mind when it came to the object of adoration.
It was just as well that the incumbent, Canon Newington, wasn’t a jealous man, or else he might have been envious of the number of enraptured faces filling the congregation when his young curate preached at evensong. The rector was pragmatic about the favourable ambience a late summer’s evening could produce, and amused that many of the congregation, the ones who showed most delight, were the spinsters among his flock. Girls of no more than fifteen through to old maids of seventy, who should have known better. He supposed it was the effect of the setting sun on Mr. Church’s golden locks, or the mellifluous sound of his voice against a background of birdsong and the lowing of the cattle in the water meadows, which enhanced the man’s already numerous attractions.
“Just you wait until the days shorten, my dear,” he told his wife after one particular sermon had been punctuated with sighs and simpering from the pews. “The cattle will all be milked by the time comes for evensong, there’ll be no rooks cawing in the elms, then the audience for Mr. Church’s monthly homily will diminish.”
“If I were the sort of woman who lays bets, I’d wager you that you’re wrong. Hopelessly so.” Mrs. Newington produced her wide, handsome grin. “His attraction for the ladies of your parish won’t wane with the daylight. The same string of eligible young women will continue to tread a path, deep and wide, to the door of Mr. Church’s lodgings.” If she’d stooped low enough to be a betting woman, she’d have won her wager fair and square. The hay was gathered in, the equinox passed and young women still arrived bearing cakes and comforters, and other delights for the curate’s delectation.
And finally...
Thinking of the last time we had proper snow and wondering if we’ll get any this winter.
