And when the Lord spoketh to Malcolm

OK, OK - I've got it, says Malcolm, my friend who works as an architect. Why don't we do one of those job swap things, you know, get it sponsored and stuff. You're the local media tycoon, ring Channel Four and see if they want to do a documentary on it or something.

I look down at my half-finished pint of Shuck. Neil by the Way hovers near the optics, spotting the obvious potential for doubles all round by way of celebration if this meeting of minds can only find a way forward when it comes to the challenging question of the church roof fund.

The Vicar, my friend who is a vicar, weighs in while we're still mulling this one over. Why yes, says the Vicar. I could design a building. Malcolm could run the Village Pub for the day, as guest landlord. Chris, who has a way with words, could write my Sunday sermon.

Sheer genius, as the Good Lord would doubtless say were he among us tonight. I mean, he's obviously with us always, he walks among us, but...

I can't see this one working, to be honest Vic, I say - puncturing the uneasy silence which has whose round is it written all over it.

Um, like, what am I going to do, says Hawkwind Sid. The bar remains silent. Neil by the Way refills our glasses, in a bid to break the deadlock.

I take a slug, noting how the ale in the Village Pub's initial bitterness gives way to a more complex blend of flavours.

I've got a better idea, I say. How about we all stick to what we're best at, but chip in for some collecting tins. Maybe we could do a float at the Village Carnival. Malcolm's mate's sister's ex-husband's brother runs a haulage company, which has lots of lorries.

Malcolm surrenders to common sense and stands his round, as I begin composing the Vicar's Sunday sermon on the back of one of the Village Pub's limited edition beermats.

ROGATION: The Epistle, St James (Village Pub, 22...) Lo, when Jesus spoketh to Malcolm, he sayeth it was Malcolm's shout...