On Sunday mornings my husband makes his escape off up a mountain on his bike. Each to his own, I suppose... Of course, this leaves me alone with five bouncy children, from 5 months to 8 years, to stimulate, educate and entertain. So, with spiritual awareness in mind, I bundle them all in the car and take them to the local church for morning service and Sunday school.
We scuffle in, with me blasting intermittent loud 'sssshhhhh's every so often, and we take over an entire pew, me, with the baby on my lap, flanked by the two young boys, with the older girls either side of them. As we entered I hastily grabbed the 'shut up' bags (little cotton sacks with crayons and paper inside) and now the children are quietly making little pleasant shapes on their paper. Up strikes the tinny pre-recorded music for the appalling modern hymn so popular with the new clergy these days, and we all enjoy a good old bellow in the bits we recognise. The children are delighted with this dreadful racket and continue briefly after the hymn has ended until they get stared at by the people in the front pew.
Enter the minister.
He starts off well, fair play to him, and the children look interested in hearing how a man called John splashes around in the Jordan cleaning people in a dress. Then he makes the mistake of doing a Reading. The older girls do try to retain their interest out of politeness, but the boys are bored rigid. One discovers a small car in his pocket and starts to drive it around on the front pew with accompanying engine noises. The other throws the paper on the floor and starts to colour in the hymnbook.
'Let us pray�' Now that no one is looking, it's time to relocate. Both boys crawl off under the pews and by the time the prayer is ended I have no idea where they are. As they can't actually get out of the building (Churches are designed that way for obvious reasons) I mentally shrug and concentrate on the lesson. The minister is now encouraging the children to shout out answers to his questions. 'When John went out into the desert, what did he live on?'
"MacDonald's!" shouts Joe with wicked glee as he drives his car over the Reverend's highly polished shoes.
"Grrrraaaaarrrr!!!!!" A well turned out lady on the unfortunate side of fifty leaps suddenly and her neat black hat falls off her neat blonde hair and lands in the central aisle, where Sam catches it in both front paws with a triumphant snarl. Not a bad kill for a two and a half year old, the proud mother in me preens. Baby Amy decides that now is the time for lunch, and makes me, and the congregation, fully aware that this is an immediate requirement. In horror, I realise that the breast pads are in my bag in the car outside, together with my emergency shut-up sweets and my purse containing a handful of 20p pieces for the collection dish. Suzannah and Jess are in pleats either side of me, not even trying to conceal their snorts and giggles, as I stuff a bus ticket I have found in my pocket down my bra, and latch the baby on.
The boys have settled down to quietly untying the shoelaces of the elderly gentleman to my right and all is quiet except for the loud slurping of my baby at the breast. Crimson, I hide behind my bible and say a silent prayer "Please God, make them bloody well behave!"
The Sunday school teacher arrives to collect the children and I can hear the entire congregation breathe out as one. But it's not over yet. Sam welds himself to my ankle and resolutely refuses to relinquish his hold. His protests measure around one hundred and twenty-five decibels, which is enough to deter the teacher from further persuasion. The other three skip merrily and noisily away, and, as the Sunday school door closes softly and the minister returns to the job in hand, something occurs to Sam.....
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