An Invitation to the Palace

Yesterday, I was invited by my sponsoring Bishop to a gathering of ordinands, at what – for want of a better word – I’ll call his Palace. Actually, there is a better word: house.

It would be fair to say I was nervous. This would be the first time I’d met most of my future clerical colleagues. It would also be the first time I’d played the ‘clergy amongst clergy’ role, and the first time in a long while that I’d negotiated that minefield of professionalism and alcohol which is the ‘networking event’.

The thing is, I’m just not very good at socialising with people who are more important than me (which, let’s face it, is currently everybody). I’ve never quite lived down the time I met the Armenian Apostolic Orthodox Patriarch of Great Britain and Ireland, and addressed him as “my dear”. One of my ‘Bridget Jones’ moments, according to my dear brothers and sisters in college. To his credit, he was charmingly unfazed. Still, not a great precedent.

Feminine crisis: what does one wear to an ‘informal’ evening event with a bishop?

Eighteen months ago, I was Smart Casual Woman. A year-and-a-half back in education and I seem to have forgotten how to dress myself. I now routinely go around in a hoodie, wet hair and no makeup. Time was when the only way to see my naked face was to wake up with me; eighteen months in an institution with no eligible males (sorry Jack) and it just seems like a waste of hard-earned Boots Advantage points. Also, I will be thirty this month, and this has plunged me into an existential crisis, manifesting itself mostly in anxiety about whether to wear my hair up or down.

The invitation did not clarify matters. It specified that I could expect a ‘relaxed’ opportunity to meet over a ‘fork supper’. On making discreet enquiries with a friend, I found this does not mean there is a shortage of knives, but a shortage of seats – and therefore also a shortage of hands, since one will be required to hold the plate. At least that might stop me drinking too much.

The cassock, of course, is suitable for all dress codes. It looks as good at a four-course dinner as it does when weeding the guttering on the church roof. However, a little bird told me the bishop himself would be wearing a purple pullover (which is quite a neat solution to the informal-but-episcopal dilemma) and outdressing a bishop would be Not the Thing. So I went for the jeans-heels-and-jacket combo I premiered at my BAP. ‘Cos that went so well…

There were about sixty people there, in various interpretations of (very-)smart casual, including three bishops. Yup, the party game of the evening was Spot the Bishop. Luckily, they’d all neglected to remove their episcopal rings. Also luckily, there turned out to be plenty of seats, tables and indeed cutlery of all persuasions. Although the ‘fork’ theme of the evening was maintained, for me at least, since a senior cleric (who will remain nameless) managed to throw his at my ankle.

I met lots of lovely people, whom I hopefully will meet again – we all bade farewell with ‘See you at the Cathedral!!’ And the bishop was charmingly diaconal, handing out plates and sitting on the floor. And when he heard somebody mention the wine had run out… he went to Sainsbury’s! (okay, I know what you were thinking, but I think that’s pretty miraculous anyway)

When I say somebody of course, I mean… me. I made the bishop go to Sainsbury’s.

…oh, Bridget!