When I imagine myself getting up to preach, I see an older middle-aged man of considerable girth sitting in my chair; wearing my robes, he grips either side with surprisingly small hands, and heaves. It takes a while and an effort to get the knees to lock into place, to locate a backbone strong enough to hold him erect. Everything, as he arrives at his vertical destination, quavers and quivers. Ponderous would be a kind word for his journey to the pulpit. At last, he mops his beaded brow, takes a gulp of water, begins to proclaim in my own voice…

The strangest thing is that it never happens that way. I have already wandered out into the middle of the church, in front of everyone, to read the Gospel, before I dogleg like a drunk into the pulpit on the way back to my seat.

I wonder who this geezer is, then, who races me there?