The parental unit came and stayed with us last week and, amongst many other things, including walking around in the freezing cold for two days, we went to visit the priest at the Cathedral. Father Hogan. Now, Father Hogan is in charge of lining up T and my speedpasses to heaven and making sure no one thinks it's a really bad idea that we marry. He listened as I explained the ins and outs of the wedding, his hands folded in front of him. He nodded, listed off the paperwork we needed and then politely leant back in his chair and smiled. Silence. My Mum, an expert in eye contact when she's not wearing her huge shades - which-is-most-of-the-time - looked at him warmly and smiled back. I fidgeted.
We got up to leave, and as we did, I remembered to mention that it might be helpful if he could talk to Father Riccardo in Paros, but that-he's-Polish-and-only-speaks-Polish-Italian-or-Greek. (We're currently communicating through Google Translator - which is priceless)
Father Hogan nodded and said, "That shouldn't be a problem. I speak most languages fluently. I taught for many years in Rome, and you know the new testament was written in Aramaic."
Of course.
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I am thinking of having little L baptised next year. Someone has to teach that poor kid all the stuff about baby J, and it won't be me. I realised that I have completely forgotten most of what's in the bible.
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