Almost…

You have saved me, pigeons.

I am preaching in Kensington this morning and then plan to do some museum hopping before attending a rock concert at 7pm (Roger Daltry doing “Tommy!”).

I am wearing black trousers, a black blazer, a bright pink shirt, a long triple-strand of seed pearls knotted over, and rain-stained boots (I did treat them before I left and they’re still stained. C’est la vie. I tried). I draw the line at the boots: I could wear fancier shoes but I don’t want to be in pain traipsing about on my cultural afternoon.

Since I do not want to attend a rock concert (however staid — after all, Roger Daltry is a geezer by now) in preaching togs, I have packed a cute striped shirt and jean jacket.

But I DID hesitate. I thought I might just go ahead and preach in a black cardigan so that I need not bring a change of clothes.

I put it on.

I was … presentable. But just barely. I was tempted. “I’m a tourist. They won’t judge me for it. They know I want to buzz around the city all day.”

And then I thought, “WHAT WOULD PEACEBANG SAY?” I thought of all of you. And I knew that no matter how hard I tried to justify it, no cardigan should ever appear in any proper pulpit in the Queen’s lands on a Sunday morning.

So I am off, my dears, to preach in a black suit and to SCHLEP a denim jacket and cotton shirt around with me until after church, at which point I will SCHLEP a black blazer and pink shirt and seed pearls around with me for the rest of the day and evening. Hardly a sacrifice that will bring me to the attention of the Vatican, but I knew you’d feel my pain.
Ta-ta for now, lambs. Have a beautiful day.