A Curates Tale

I used to be a curate in, and Beaky named a North York’s town while taking a sip of his beer and eying the company round. We knew there was a story coming. We could tell by the look on his face and the way he squirmed and wiggled his backside comfortably into place. There were quite a few cremations there and I was baffled and just didn’t know why every hearse cab seemed to be a travelling soft fruit show. There’d be a basket or bowl or bucket full of finest orchard fare; but they were always empty when that hearse left there. When I‘d served my time, was felt to be a man of trust they let me into the secret and I laughed near fit to bust. This was thrifty Yorkshire and nowt went to waste so they used the constant heat to brew some wines of taste. I remember my feelings of pride that very first time I tried the first sip of my own crematorium wine. The labourer’s worthy of his hire and they‘d all have been chuffed if they knew their final act of departure enabled a fine home brew. Beaky finished his pint accepted appreciative grins, muttering it’s nearly time whose going to get them in?? To The Rev Kenneth George Beake R.I.P. Ken - we had some good times together.