The vicar of the church which I attended between the ages of about eleven and fourteen was a decent, compassionate sort of man. He interceded on my behalf once when I was the object of some spiteful bullying by one of the officers in the local Boys’ Brigade company. That being the case, it seems a little unfair that I mostly remember him for two things:
The first was that he had a habit of turning his toes inwards when he sat on a chair, which imbued him with an air of feebleness – especially when he had a copy of the Bible resting on his knees, for some reason. The second was the fact that he had eight children, which combined with his name led to an unfortunate overindulgence in the all-too-obvious joke. His name was the Rev Dunnet.