I had a dream last night that Richard Armitage was the new priest at my childhood church.
My overall impression of him was that his voice was lovely, as was his demeanor, but his hands were far too distracting. I couldn’t wait until the end of Mass so that I could get a handshake from him!
It had been awhile since the last time I was in that church so my eyes kept wandering. The awful gold lamay wall covering had been replaced with wallpaper that depicted “danger sports”. Images of bungee jumping and drag racing were there alongside the Stations of the Cross. Hmm. I’m all for moving forward with the times but that was a bit much.
I tried to subtly look up at the ceiling, because that’s where my eyes spent a lot of their time as a child, and I was upset to see that the wooden beams were covered with a drop-ceiling. There used to be a triangular crossbeam that I always imagined Jesus sitting on, swinging his feet in bliss, while I had to suffer through the sermons. And now it was gone. What the hell, Peter Jackson?! Peter was the one funding my little hometown church, so he was responsible for the changes. Speaking of which, he was currently over there in the adjoining pew, punching an inflatable beach ball around like they do at concerts.
Okay, Mass was now over and so I went to collect my husband (I have no idea why he wasn’t sitting with me) but he was engulfed in reading The Hobbit. He was sitting in the second row. “I hope you weren’t reading that during the Sermon!” I said. “What if Richard saw you?”
My husband just shrugged his shoulders and ignored me. At this point we’re the last ones in the church and I’ve missed my chance to shake Richard’s hand. Maybe if we’re quick enough, we can still catch him at the bottom of the stairs.
Husband starts moving towards the side entrance, which would bypass the stairs. I tell him that I don’t want to go that way but he says he’s just getting his shoes. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that all shoes come off at the door. Another one of PJ’s forward thinking changes.
It’s then that my husband notices someone had switched out his shoes. He was left with a similar black pair, though the worse for wear, but missing the kick-ass red and orange flames of his own shoes. (I should mention that my husband is a very conforming sort of fellow who would never read in church or wear flame emblazoned shoes) This means that we’ll now be going down to the church Hall for refreshment hour in order to find his missing shoes.