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.
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