Gunson wasn’t keen to go to the annual parish dance. They’re all into religion, said Gunson. Going to church was the last thing on his mind when he went to a dance.
You’re all of nineteen, said his mother, and it’s work, work, work. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
So Gunson grudgingly put on his best semi-casual attire and went to the dance. He walked into the church hall and there was Cressida! Cressida! He’d never laid eyes on her before. She was radiant. She was the best thing since sliced bread. He asked her for a dance, and they danced all evening.
How was it? asked his mother the next morning.
It was alright, mumbled Gunson.
A few weeks later, Gunson’s mother was puzzled.
I can’t understand why you’ve started going to church on Sundays, she said.