On Any Given Sunday Morning

You probably don’t want to know what I get up to on Sunday. You’re probably fast asleep at 8:20 on Sunday mornings when I’m doing a sort of jog-walking to the bus stop. I nearly always make it there before Bus 34 rounds the bend.

You may have read about how I walk past the gardens of Kensington, and that it takes me a good ten minutes to get to the church. I mentioned this in my entry on jacarandas. They aren’t in bloom anymore. Instead, “For Sale” signs keep cropping up in front of the houses. I love looking at these.

If you’re not the religious sort, or the Christian sort, you won’t be interested that the Anglican Church that I go to, St. Martin-in-the-Fields, is a lot like the Church of North India. Although sometimes, it feels like I’m in a Catholic Church. Most people wear a small cross, and we light candles here – something I’ve never seen in any other Protestant church. The pastor is a woman, and everyone is very relaxed. You’d be surprised at the way people laugh in church – imagine that happening in India. The very idea is seriously laughable.

What you would find very funny is that I’m often the youngest person in the church. Sometimes, I’m the brownest person too – unless Vivienne, an Aboriginal great-grandma attends with her many grandchildren. Someone once asked me whether we were related. I’d be honoured to have her as a relative, but honestly can’t people see how different Indians look from Native Australians? Now I keep looking for the resemblance.

Fine dining at St. Martin's in Kensington

You may be interested though in the morning tea after the service. Would it be blasphemous of me to say that it’s one of the best parts of going to church? I’m learning to eat Aussie style butterfly cupcakes, honey joys (aka things not good for your fillings) and other things that I’m still learning the names of.

So, you probably don’t care that while I have trouble getting there, there’s always someone willing to give me a lift back home. I find it amazing and quite touching how nice people are. I’m just a bit uncomfortable being offered a lift by someone who’s over eighty. Surely, I should be the one driving them around. I admire the independence of Australian pensioners.

But, you’re probably doing better things on Sunday morning. If you aren’t you’re welcome to join me. But if you are, perhaps you’ll invite me along sometime 🙂

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