We've got no telly. We've got no Internet. We've got no radio. Out here in the sticks, we've got no theatre. We need entertainment. I mean, for goodness sake. At Christmas they're so depressed with the dark nights (and no electric light, don't forget) they put up with mummers. And what other than near-suicidal boredom could explain anyone tolerating Morris dancers?
And Sunday in South Wessex - there's no shops open, no cinema, you can't go for much of a drive. So we put up with the preaching because it's that or counting crows to pass the time.
But even with all this, Maybold still broke all records for dull preaching this morning. I tell you, if his pillow talk is as dull as his preaching it's a wonder Mrs Maybold's not pushed him in the Frome already. Maybe a few thoughts on the family life on the Assyrians is good by you, but for me - anyway, I've suggested he might like to make it a bit more "stand up" in future.
As usual, our little architectural assistant was in church this morning, Tommy Hardy, his name is. Studious, dull, and with an eye for unlikely women. He needs watching.