Since my last en column I’ve had the dubious pleasure of appearing on a national TV gameshow.
I think I’ve mostly got away with it where I live. While my parents in Lancashire have had numerous comments from parishioners about ‘their Rachel’s’ inglorious foray into TV stardom, down here in Surrey it has remained, much to my relief, mostly incognito. But, to quote Rico Tice quoting John Stott quoting someone else whose name I have forgotten, one ought to be prepared to ‘rejoice in one’s humiliations’. (Plus, I’ll be honest with you, I’m two days past this column’s deadline and scrambling for content.)
Anyway. It was a Thursday morning. It was raining. And on the way into work my car – which I had owned for a mere matter of months – broke down in spectacular style, conking out at the edge of the office car park. I didn’t have breakdown cover (because I’m either an optimist or a fool), but several of my colleagues were kind enough to push the car through the business park to the garage 600 metres round the corner. In the middle of the deluge. It was heroic.
The irony of our Decembers
I have a friend who once told me that, in the course of daily life, she frequently imagines what it …