Victoria, the Vicar is explaining, had three great needs: a sleeping bag, hot tea and occasional medical intervention for head lice. I'm worried that he'll mention her most visible need, which was men. No passing male was denied a slot in her sleeping bag and our vicarage CCTV pulsed with live footage of her vigorous hospitality. When I mentioned that Sex Addicts Anonymous were meeting in the church hall behind her she dashed in, arms spread wide, and threatened a collective relapse.
Victoria had once had a husband, but the only good thing in her marriage was, she said, the wok. The Vicar doesn't mention any of this and I am relieved. But later I hear him on the phone to my brother who is collating his birthday lists. The Vicar tells him that he urgently needs a new wok. Ours, he reports, is stained and shabby with over-use. Then I decide to bake a great many cakes for the next church tea so that he will rejoice in matrimony, for our old wok looks perfectly sound to me and the symbolism is unnerving.