the vicar of Scurveyshire

Big Brother and also Big Sister and Big Father | Book humor ...

Well, we guessed what was going to happen to the self-proclaimed Bishop of Booh, didn’t we? Tentacles shot out from under the vicar’s wading pool and dragged the poor bishop, monkey doll and all, down to whatever’s down there under the pool. “I say!” exclaims Lord Jeremy. “Good thing he wasn’t a real bishop! Might’ve been a spot of trouble over that.”

And so we plod on to Chapter CCCLIV of Violet Crepuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney, in which the vicar discovers that he rather likes being chained to his night-stand and would prefer not to give it up.

“I am afraid, dear reader,” interjects the author, “that the beloved vicar of Scurveyshire has developed a somewhat eccentric personality. In addition to remaining chained to the night-stand, he has formed a passion for solving classic English murders that have already been solved, sending love letters to members of the royal family, and investing non-existent money into non-existent business ventures. This can only be due to the stress of having a wading pool that preys on unsuspecting passers-by.”

The vicar’s housekeeper, the towering Mrs. Dodder, encourages him in these pursuits. She likes to pick him up by the collar and dust the floor beneath him. As she is able to do this with just one hand, no one likes to get on her bad side.

“None of this is getting me and Margo married!” laments Lord Jeremy. His prospective bride, Lady Margo Cargo, has decided that no one but the vicar ought to perform the ceremony. “He’s the only one who understands me!” she explains, for what it’s worth.

At this point in the story Ms. Crepuscular indulges in a recipe for dandelion greens in toothpaste sauce. “Writing about eccentric people depresses me,” she confides in the reader, “but there’s always comfort in my kitchen!”

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Violet Crepuscular introduces Chapter CCCLI of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, with a caveat.

“Dear reader,” she writes, “you may find the content of the foregoing chapter rather distressing. That’s why I have provided this caveat. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

Word has come down from the Bishop of Booh that the beloved vicar of Scurveyshire, conniptions and all, has been fired from his post and transferred to a mission station in Manchuria. “We are removing said vicar for his latitudinarian tendencies,” explains the bishop, “and his failure to complete payment on his back yard wading pool. Please consider this to be subcutaneous.”

Constable Chumley’s reaction speaks for the community: “Luffer yon furd wi’ mickle great theer,” he sighs. This saying immediately becomes the watchword for all Scurveyshire.

The vicar has chained himself to his night-stand and refuses to leave. “I’ll give him subcutaneous!” He roars defiance. Records show that there is no such bishopric as “Booh” and that the current incumbent has been appointed by some charlatan in Kansas. But as Lord Jeremy Coldsore says, as he tries valiantly to avoid intervening in the controversy, “A bishop is a bishop.”

A further notice from the bishop arrives that afternoon: “Don’t make me come down there!”

“I kinda like our vicar,” remarks the American adventurer, Willis Twombley. He then cacchinates in a way that raises doubts as to his sanity. “I do wish he wouldn’t cacchinate!” mutters Lord Jeremy.

The upshot of it all is that the vicar remains chained to his night-stand for the time being because no one knows what to do. It has been some 800 years since Scurveyshire was last visited and reprimanded by a bishop, in the days of Corinius the Pipsqueak. “And that,” concludes Ms. Crepuscular, “is an historical experience that no one wishes to repeat!”