The vicar couldn’t resist deviating from the speech he’d prepared to open the church Christmas fayre. He was bouncing up and down on his toes, such was his excitement.
“I do hope you will forgive me one moment of self indulgence,” he gibbered. “But I just wanted to share something wonderful with you. My son,” he indicated with a grand, theatrical sweep of his hand over to one side of the hall. I looked, curious, but I don’t know his son, and I couldn’t spot a mortified face amid the crowd.
“My son has just been named ‘The Sun’s’ up-and-coming photographer of the year.”
There was a ripple of polite applause as everyone obediently indulged his paternal pride, while simultaneously thinking over the ramifications of this shiny nugget. ‘The Sun’ is renowned for publishing smutty soft porn. Would anyone, least of all the vicar, truly want to trumpet being awarded an accolade from such a publication?
“He’s available for commissions and portraits,” the vicar added, his big beaming moon-face oblivious to any sniggers.
So come on, good people of the village. Who wants to have a portrait done by ‘The Sun’s’ up-and-coming photographer of the year? Anyone? Actually, you never know. Down here in ‘Tales’, guessing who might be game enough will be a source of amusement for some time to come. You never can tell what really goes on behind closed doors in sleepy villages like this. You never know. And, one suspects, it’s probably better that way!