Today was my first grown-up Easter. I’m not saying it was boring or incredibly religious, just different from the confectionary celebrations “of my youth.”
I went to church with my landlady this morning and think I’ll continue to go there on my remaining Sundays in London. Seriously. The service was that good. And the people there were so friendly, so welcoming. And there’s also the fact that the church is over 150 years old, which significantly contributes to its overall charm. And the refreshments served before and after helped, too.
Best of all, the service is heavily geared towards children. As I’ve previously established, I possess limited knowledge of Christianity. Thus, the props the Vicar used to simplify his explanations really aided in my understanding of his sermon. Oh, that golden egg represents that which money can’t buy? Now I get it. I promise I’ll appreciate the intangibles from now on.
They also pass out musical instruments at the beginning of the service for the children and children-at-heart to bang on when the inspiration hit them during the especially moving songs. One old woman behind us was feeling particularly passionate, thudding on her tambourine mercilessly. As you can imagine, it was difficult to ignore.
“She’s this big black lady,” my landlady said in retelling the story to our visitor this evening. “But unlike most black people, she has absolutely no rhthym!”
The Vicar then sent the children on a little Easter egg hunt during the sermon to demonstrate a point about searching for the obvious, dividing the kids into teams: boys versus girls. The number of girls considerably overwhelmed the boys.
“That’s life,” my landlady said during this process. “There’s never enough men to go around.”
I also want to note that with communion, they offered chocolate eggs. This place does not mess around in the food-n-fun department. I didn’t go up because communion always makes me feel super awkward and slightly cannibalistic, but fear not, ’cause they passed out more eggs after the service ended.
I suppose this Sunday has only been my most mature due to the lack of Easter egg hunt and the epic basket search that continues to occur in my house every year, despite all of us being at least 7 years past the Easter bunny phase. I certainly haven’t eaten enough chocolate, either.
Fortunately, my landlady and I made up for those deficits this evening by having dinner with her friend Michael. They are flirtatious and hilarious and entirely inappropriate. So I suppose my day wasn’t so grown-up, after all. It’s important to note that both of them are in their 70s as I plan to relay several parts of their gin-and-tonic-and-wine-fueled conversation. Some highlights include:
Mary: “You have lovely hair.”
Michael: “You may stroke it whenever you like.”
Mary: “I don’t hate dogs–In fact, I love animals.”
Michael: “Of course you do, that’s why all of your lovers have been failures.”
Michael: “She doesn’t want to wank with a Yank, she wants a baby.”
Michael telling a story about his old landlady: “She told me that only two men had ever called her a ‘damn British nanny.’ An Englishman she once worked for and Rasputin.”
As in, his former landlady used to be the nanny of the Romanov family. The one with Anastasia. Do you realize that there are now four degrees of separation between me and Rasputin?! Even in all my youthful Anastasia fascination, I never thought I’d see the day.
I would love to post some pictures displaying the church, etc., but the downside of this Mac is its inability to recognize my digital camera. So the nostalgia fest continues.