Our daily spoken language is littered with idioms. These figurative expressions conjure pictures to illustrate what we wish to convey.
Crying over spilt milk is a complete waste of time. What’s done is done now get on with it!
Stop beating around the bush and say what you really mean.
On the first impression, we may judge a book on its cover. Delve deeper, open the pages and chances are, that impression will change.
And we’ve all come across something that is simply the best thing since sliced bread, right?
Imagine if walls could really talk and what walls could hear if they had ears?
Equal in the Eyes of the Almighty
The old walls of St Stephen’s groan wearily, “Alas, another dismal attendance!”
“What’s that you’re saying?” wheezes Organ.
“The turn-out to today’s service, was pretty dismal, again. Less and less of the faithful attending the services each week.”
“Us Pews agree with you on that one, Walls. Some of us had not a single derrière upon them today!”
“Derrière indeed. You and your fancy words, Pews. Call it what it is: bums.” booms Organ.
“Language! Remember where you are,” Stain Glass utters indignantly.
“Bums, derrières, posteriors, back-sides, rumps, butts, hind-quarters, arses – whatever nomenclature you wish to use, it all adds up to the same thing.” Pews rants.
“And pray, what might that be?” snorts Pulpit from his lofty position.
“With fewer of the faithful attending the services, it suggests that we have become redundant.”
“Pews is right. We, us, this church collectively,” Walls pauses and dramatically wraps himself around the others, “are looking at the last bell tolling in the steeple.”
“Impossible! I won’t allow it!” Pulpit thunders.
“Oh, it’ll happen dear boy. At the last monthly meeting of the church councillors within these very walls, word from above had been received. Should attendance to the Sunday service continue to decline, St Stephen’s will close before the years end.”
“And you know this, how?” Pulpit demands authoritatively.
“I’m walls, aren’t I? And walls have ears. No tongue in groove intended,” Walls chuckles. No-one else does, each quiet to their own thoughts.
“The problem is that we no longer enlighten,” Stain Glass proffers.
“That is certainly true for you, Stain Glass. Have you taken a look at yourself lately? You’re decidedly unenlightening! Dusty and cracked, the sunlight no longer shimmers through your hallowed panes.”
“It pains me to hear you speak of my panes like that, Organ. And talking about hearing, have you listened to yourself lately? Your notes have become slow and dreary and you snort and wheeze like an asphyxiated dragon.”
“It’s rheumatism, I’m afraid,” Organ concedes. “Young Jasper, the organist, does his best, bless him, but he is unable to massage the aches away.”
“And my wooden surfaces are uninviting upon which to place one’s bum!” Pews admit. “Nobody appreciates splinters in their tender regions.”
A holy hush descends.
“Eeeeek, eeeek, eeeek.” Tiny feet scuttle up the baptismal font. Father Church Mouse, standing on his hind legs at the edge of the font, surrounded by the other church mice, smiles. “Ahem. Ladies, gentlemen, what a sorry lot you are! You yourselves can resurrect this church, with a little help from us meek church mice.
Organ, after a thorough cleansing of your pipes, you will be capable of pumping out sweet music, only please, jazz it up a bit.
Pews, some smooth sanding should rid you of splinters.
And Stain Glass, a bit of spit and polish and you will again, enlighten.
“Yes?” Pulpit glares defiantly at Father Mouse.
“Lose the attitude, after-all we are all equal in the eyes of the Almighty.
There-in ends my sermon.”