Bless the Squinty Pastors

As far as weekends go, yesterday was the epitome of lethargy. The kind of wake-up-go-to-church-have-lunch-sit-on-couch-with-dog-try-to-read-a-book-but-end-up-falling-asleep kind of day. What is it with heavy Sunday lunches? The minute it delves into the depths of your stomach, I swear it procedes to block your brain waves and impede on any kind of capability to do physical activity.

I shall officially dub it "the incumbent mystery of digesting roast beef, parsnips and potatoes on a Sunday". I suppose I needed it.

Had lunch with the Pastor and his wife. Scottish, largerthanlife, foodloving, God fearing duo. They remind me of two laughing God-of-Prosperity's, with their jiggy double chins, reverberating bellies and squinty eyes...(Is it seemingly blasphemous to make such references?) I love them to smithereens, we have become goodgood friends. We argue over stupid things like Scottish pronounciations and the fact I get it wrong all the time. ("Staenraer" is pronounced "sten-rah"), they talk me through my difficulties, like coping with my emotional turbulence over Mrs. X, whom I still think about.

Mrs. X still haunts the recesses of my mind. There's a limit to how much my words can carry, how much disappointment I feel, how much I can convey without silent tears that I quickly wipe away. I find its good to talk - to heave it off my chest; and when words fail me, its good that they allow me the solace of falling asleep, exhausted after Sunday lunch, a winge, and a good cry.