It was Thursday morning and the coronation of King Charles III was by now, tantalisingly close. Over at St Michael's vicarage however, all was not well.
"What do you mean we can't have a street party outside the church this Sunday?" Reverend Morris exclaimed. "There was no problem last year when we had the Jubilee celebrations."
The council official at the end of the line muttered something about it being the Mayor's rule, and hung up.
"Bloody councils," the vicar moaned. "Full of useless overpaid pen-pushers. The Mayor's coming to visit our church later today too. I've a good mind to raise the issue with him face to face."
Jenna raised an eyebrow. "I thought being a mayor was just a ceremonial role. How come he's not letting the church hold a street party?"
"Some red tape about obstructing the King's Highway or something."
"But we're holding a party to honour the new King! Surely rules can be waived just this once?"
"We could always pretend to be eco protesters," Reverend Morris remarked.
Jenna uncrossed her legs and began thinking. "That Mayor needs some persuading. "I can't have Simon's plans ruined by pesky red tape..."
Mayor Harrison Buckingham rolled his eyes as he turned into the small car park of St Michael's church hall.
"Right, time for another tedious hour shaking hands with old ladies and giving fake smiles," the corpulent man muttered as he parked the Jaguar.
"Keys," his wife replied.
"What, you're not coming in with me?"
"Not a chance. You can do this all by yourself, darling. I'm off to the Trafford Centre for a spot of retail therapy."
"But...but, Pauline, you're the Mayoress! And how am I going to get home?"
"And you're the Mayor dear. A small church like this only needs one of us. Our house is five minutes from this church. You could either phone a taxi or do something really daring, such as walk home. Keys."
He grumbled to himself but did as she asked.
"Ah, he's here," Reverend Morris said. Jenna observed the approaching man carefully. Aged about sixty, overweight, and with greying hair that was dominated by a large and very obvious toupΓ©e. His gold mayoral chains glinted in the late spring sunshine.
"Ohh, he's a chonky lad."
"From what I've heard, he's dishonest and drinks a lot." Reverend Morris whispered. "His smile is as fake as that hairpiece he's wearing. Norman Winstanley knows him from the Men's Fellowship meetings, and said he's made a fool of himself several times."
"Perfect qualities for someone working on the council then," Jenna smirked.
"By the way, I heard Norman has moved in with Gladys Wilcox and become her lodger."
"There's something kinky going on between those two, I'm certain of it." Jenna said.
"What? As if. She's in her eighties!" The vicar gasped.
"Just because there's snow on the roof, doesn't mean the fire's gone out!" Jenna replied. "Although Gladys once confessed to me that she had a bit of a fancy for Gordon. I guess Norman's her second choice as he was willing to do whatever she asked of him."
Reverend Morris' eyes widened. "I'm sure he only helps her with D.I.Y and her shopping."
"Well I still think there's more to it. Mark my words. I don't think Gladys is the prim old widow you think she is!"
Reverend Morris fiddled with his surplice. "Ah, good afternoon Mayor!"
"Hello there, Vicar!" He shook hands. "Oh and who is this lovely lady? Your daughter I presume?"
"No, my wife, Jenna."
"Ah, my bad. Dearie me, either you're his second wife or you've got a bloody good plastic surgeon! Hahaha!"
Reverend Morris cringed. "Jenna is my second wife. Lucy and I divorced a year ago.
"Oh I see. Well don't blame you there, Reverend. Wish I could do the same but She Who Must Be Obeyed won't let me. Hahaha!"