The witch and the vicar – a tale a blinkered perceptions.

“But I’m a witch” said the witch.

“I know that” said the constant friend “but it will be all right.”

It wasn’t going to be all right, it was never all right. People with titles like that had attitudes they had no right to possess. Titles led to trouble – it was the law.

The witch bit her lip. Biting lips was a hazard of an occupation that involved avoiding anything to do with dog collars, smells, bells, heaven and hell. As far as the witch was concerned there were far too many blinkered donkeys in the world who failed to see even one side of the coin let alone the five brilliant points of a misinterpreted star.

“My friends are not like that.” said the smilingly smug constant friend.

The witch raised a practised eyebrow and treated her knowing friend to a smirk and said “I know but all the same I will leave my heathen symbols at home and won’t mention stuff that could cause fights that involve hospital visits – promise.”

It was always best to keep your head down when the spiritual bullets were flying – less wounds, less blood all round.

The last time the witch had encountered a man of the cloth there had been much teeth gnashing, fist clenching and general discomfort. The cloth man had gone a weird shade of puce and removed the biscuit tin so as not to prolong the visit. The witch had raised both practised eyebrows and consigned the man from the God Squad to the same place that the biscuits had gone. Once again, the refusal to acknowledge that the world was full of paths, many paths, had rattled her belief in her own humanity. He had failed miserably to see that her pointy boots could possibly share the same road as his be-socked, be-sandaled feet. Yes, really, not only a blind donkey but also a bad dresser - just another reason to remain resolutely pagan when all around there were the blue flashing lights of the fashion police. Vanity was a failing that she had long since come to love.

So, surprises were not on the agenda. The witch would play the game by their rules and everything would be lovely but unfortunately the Gods and Goddesses were having a party in the kitchen along with the biscuits and had decided that ‘Boo!’ was the word of the moment. The witch raised more than just her cynically poised eyebrows, matching her mouth to the shape of someone who had just been shot in the ass with the surprise bullet.

“But?” she spluttered “I am a witch of the world. My stripy socks know exactly where the ground is and my pointy pagan hat is shock absorbingly shockproof.

“Mmm hmm” the constant friend said “I did tell you.”

Being told was different to experiencing. This man of the cloth was a man of all worlds. His eyes were so open that they were positively lidless. Not only was he smiling openly when the ‘p’ word was mentioned but his was also adding, not only his ten penneth, but the rest of the index linked inflation since the dawn of the groat. Acknowledgement and understanding from this mono-god follower was definitely hitting an itch that the witch had not been able to scratch for quite some years.

Funny really, lessons came in the most surprising bottles of potions and the taste of this particular medicine was all together the sweetest that she had tasted for a very, very long time.

***

Moral - never judge a man by his collar and never judge a witch by the height of her very nice new pointy boots.

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