A strange wakefulness overcame me this morning. A colleague's irritating voice from the past telling someone on the phone, 'That's the best thing to do.' A line from a Faith Brothers song I've been singing since surfing, 'I shall be released come Sunday.' Other voices compete for attention, none of them saying anything much worth listening to.
On Sunday mornings in the early hours my sub-conscious stretches into action and demands its chance to be a naughty boy. 'Go on, go on,' it says 'Skive church, You know you want to.'
Thing is, I don't think I want to. But I miss the opportunity to decide to go rather than have to.
Today is light. I am being a musician and a notice giver in one service. Volunteers are working harder than me. But if it wasn't for this one lovely, all-age act of Christian worship I would have had a six day mini-break. And it is not simply a matter of pitching up, playing and scarpering. When you're the vicar you have to be ready to be the vicar, even if you're just the piano player.
You will be asked about a forthcoming funeral, the programme for home groups this autumn, the coffee rotas, the delay in the youth workers appointment, and something you haven't anticipated. Newcomers may be in church and the usually brilliant meeters and greeters may miss them.
Which is why, although there is not much preparation to do, I am up early thinking and praying my way into the day and trying to tell myself to enjoy it and doubting my own ability. The charisma dial goes up to eleven, still. But it's a bit stiff today. Been nearly twenty six years now. Doesn't get any easier.