Every year it’s the same.
The eggs, milk and flour are waiting. The syrup is decanted and the lemons poised. The house is as tidy as it’s likely to get, and the coffee maker is hissing away.
Three congregations with the challenge of ferry time-tables and narrow roads through the hills means that the party starts early, at 4pm. But there are locals too, which means we don’t finish till about 10pm.
So, in the hour that remains before I start cooking, shall I burn ash, write a sermon, or prepare the pew sheets, do you suppose?
I can never really focus on Ash Wednesday till the last pancake has been eaten. Which makes for an early morning of austerity and fervent prayer, I assure you.