By Michael Bloor
(first published Jan 28th, 2018 in THE DRABBLE)
Sixty years ago, it was still commonplace for ministers in rural Scotland to call on all their parishioners, welcome or not. Mother would seat him at the kitchen table and put the kettle on, while I listened at the door as they discussed father’s behavior. After one particularly disreputable episode, the visitor concluded:
“Weel mistress, you’re nay marrit. So my advice wud be just to put him richt oot the door.”
My mother pondered this a moment, “Aye, minister, I’ll do as ye say. Can I ask a favour though? Would ye collect his pay packet for me every Saturday?”