To be perfectly honest I’m getting a little worried about Bishop Quinine. The story of little April Rose and Beccah Beushausen seems to have affected him more than might be considered normal.
Last night he began ranting obsessively about “Mommy blogs”, and how they were the key to internet fame, wealth, and gratuitous casual sex. Normally as avid a reader of the Anglican/Episcopalian blogosphere as can be found, he instead began insisting that the real voices of new journalism can only be found in those sites dealing with the minutiae of such issues as breast feeding, infant regurgitation, and the challenges of home-schooling children with names like Jeremiah, Keziah, and Rake. Warming to this theme, my poor Prelate then starting dreaming of a day when GAFCON offers homespun remedies for infantile gastroenteritis (“Tie three feathers and a fermenting jackfruit around your little one’s neck, then read Galatians together every evening until the problem clears”) instead of hard-hitting Biblical exposition.
Not that Mommy blogs don’t have their place. Take Hostillium, for example: the smoldering sensuality beneath her passive-aggressive veneer not infrequently touches me in ways I haven’t experienced since accidentally setting fire to my dromedary costume. Yet I dare say the signs were there a few weeks ago, when Bishop Quinine began insisting she was sending us secret messages, which could only be deciphered by writing each word of her posts onto small pieces of paper, then drawing them randomly from a hat to reassemble them into new sentences. Clearly the seeds of his Mommy Blog delusion were already taking root, although to be fair there was an uncanny poetry in the results, and it did accurately describe the obvious yearnings for me that I know the little Calvinist Cutie keeps hidden deep inside – a yearning which must forever remain unrequited, but which will nevertheless always burn beneath the surface of her writing. Not to mention the way she calls it “Homescholing” in her blogspot labels (perhaps putting two “o”s in the one word violates some secret orthodox moral precept?).
Still, on a more prosaic level, the local Police have just phoned to say dear old +Quinine’s been caught attempting to join a Titus 2 Birthing Class, insisting that the pillow stuffed down the front of his shirt is really “a precious little miracle-baby” that the Spirit has told him is to be christened “Venalballs”. Since he doesn’t appear to have profited from this delusion (other than having persuaded some kind-hearted old lady to start knitting him a pair of size 10 pink woollen booties), they’ll be bringing home without pressing charges – but I’ve got a feeling we haven’t seen the end of this…
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.