Jonathan Gardner

Last week I took my second West Indian funeral. I thought after all that happened at my first funeral the next would be less eventful.

As I waited for the coffin to arrive at the Church a phone call came to say that the horse drawn coffin was running 20 mins. late. I knew this would have a knock on effect to our very tight time frame. It would turn out not to be a problem at all. The service went well and we managed to keep everything going including the viewing. Until that is another phone call this time from the cemetery to say that as they were digging the grave a water pipe was hit and the hole was rapidly filling with water. It wasn't to be a burial at sea so a new grave had to be dug this meant there was no rush for us to get there in fact they wanted us to go slowly.

Once there I wanted to use the toilet but as I tried to unlock the door it wouldn't open. No matter what I tried nothing worked. I did have my mobile so I thought that I could ring Abigail and ask her to look up the telephone number of the cemetery on the Internet then I could give them a call to say I was stuck in their toilet. I prayed and tried the lock one last time, it worked, what relief!

At the graveside, just before the committal (that Pastor Paul Read was going to do) the funeral director came to me and said "we must release the doves now" I replied "what doves?" It turned out that the family had arranged for three doves to be released but they didn't tell us. As it was getting dark and cold the doves might have refused to fly off. They did but took a very short flight path back to their boxes. Then hail fell hard for 15 minutes, long enough to soak me right through. At the reception there was industrial sized heaters that I warmed myself on. In five minutes my suit was dry but steam poured out as though I was on fire. As I sat down at the table a plate of curried goat arrived in front of me. Being a Pastor means you don't have to queue for food - I can cope with that, just.

So we are fast approaching our first anniversary of living in, ministering in, and loving Clapham!

At times you wouldn't know you were in London at all. A stroll amongst the trees and the fallen leaves of the Common gives you a sense of the country. This illusion is usually shattered by being hit by an Australian football or the sighting of someone vaguely famous from television.

The area is very family friendly - in fact it has the nickname of "nappy valley". At all times you must keep your eyes out for what I call Chelsea tank prams. These are captained by an eastern European nanny speaking on her mobile, walking the family dog and drinking a Starbucks beverage!

Church life is great but frantic. The boys love being there. Their red hair really stands out in the sea of black hair. So far I have enjoyed the delights of peas and rice, curried goat and dumplings. Also a Jamaican drink that is somewhat like Bailey's. So not much chance yet of dropping some belt notches.

Abigail's friend has started a Clapham chapter of the W.I. So she is with her "sisters", the boys are in bed and I only have the rat in the kitchen to keep me company!