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everyone, I was so embarrassed, but instead I rolled my eyes, feigned a giggle and curtseyed. Then I shouted in a mock-announcer’s voice; “Go back to your work, there’s nothing to see here.”
    Once everyone had dispersed, I gathered what was left of my dignity and Al returned with refreshments.
    “Al, the next time you see me up to my waist in mud and clinging to a vicar, would you help first before you make hilarious comments from the sidelines please,” I hissed.
    “My darling, I do hope that’s the first and the last time I find you in flagrante with the vicar of the parish,” he giggled, with fluttering lashes and a flash of cosmetically-whitened teeth.
    I was soon furnished with a towel, a Mr Kipling and a hot coffee. The cake revived me and despite being very muddy I was able to move on and attend to Bernard’s concerns about filming.
    A pleasant chap in his late fifties, our Bernard was no George Clooney or Brad Pitt, or even Jack Nicholson. He was more of a Jack Duckworth, really. After what we’d just been through together, I felt an intimacy I hoped he shared. I could see I had to convince him that God and his parishioners wouldn’t desert him and that the garden makeover would be in keeping. Mind you, I had my work cut out with the new ‘Punk Paint’ range that was currently being slapped up and down his fencing and which promised on the tin to, ‘bring out the Johnny Rotten in you!’
     “This will be an amazing experience for everyone involved,” I said. “And the garden will be a triumph.” Who was I kidding? Even I could see that ‘violent violet’ paint wasn’t the obvious choice for the vicar’s garden showcase of Victorian art, featuring sculpted stonework, encaustic tiling and wrought iron. But I’m not one to give up.
    “God would want this on television; he created this garden... why not show off his handiwork?” I heard myself saying, scrabbling at random concepts in an attempt to prevent him backing out at this late stage in production.
    “Stella. There’s paint everywhere, there’s noise from the catering truck and shouting until all hours. There are cables and cameras all over the place and lights still full-on at midnight. Poor Denise hasn’t been able to sleep because the crew keep her awake all night, banging away.”
    I looked away and managed to refrain from commenting.
    “My biggest anxiety, Stella, is the parishioners’ access to the church. I’m afraid none of us feel very close to God with a big microphone and a cherry picker bearing down on us at Evensong.”
    “But Bernard, I can assure you it’ll be worth all the pain. Instead of 30 or 40 parishioners at your services, you’ll be on TV with more than a million!”
    “That may well be true Stella, but my concerns are with my congregation and their relationship with Jesus.”
    I saw his point and couldn’t help wishing that I had more in my armoury, that I’d paid attention in Confirmation classes or was more familiar with the writings of Patience Strong. I needed the holy approach because I realised Bernard’s main concern around being on telly was God. He didn’t want to piss God off (my words not his) and who could blame him for keeping in with the boss? The Lord was his bread and butter, after all.
    “I was told the makeover would be minimal. Just some ‘tidying up,’ your colleague told me. That turned out to be rather misleading to say the least... Then there’s colour scheme Stella. It’s rather ‘punk-rock-ish’. Do we really think scarlet and purple are the most churchlike of choices?”
    I spluttered to give myself time, then went for it. “I’d say that violet is very ecclesiastical, Bernard,” I tried, wiping at my mud-covered wellies with wet leaves in an attempt to hide the horror on my face and think of something else to say.
     “As for the punk look,” I continued, not meeting his eyes, “well, I’m sure I read in Hello! that Johnny Rotten has just become a born again