Dominus in sanctum

I discovered there's a monastery on my street this week. This is particularly entertaining given that the street is two rows of terraced houses in very residential south east London. But there they are at number 69 - the Franciscan Friars of the Immaculate Maria House "Our Lady Coredemptrix".

This revelation came about because there was, until last saturday morning, a huge metal filing cabinet inhabiting one of the cupboards in me and girlf's newly let flat. The landlord had arranged for it to be removed, the handyman who was supposed to be effecting this has a really advanced, almost mage-like concept of the term 'unhurried'... Anyway, eventually we said 'handyman' five times into the mirror and he appeared and the cabinet was duly moved... as far as the front garden.

It was a start. It sat there all day sunday, all day monday, and then on the third day, miraculously, it had gone. 'Good work handyman fella', I thought - erroneously as it turned out. For that very night there was a ring at the door and there was a bearded man in a long grey robe. I had just finished a leisurely second supper... sorry, I was drifting off into world of Tolkien there. But really though, it was a bearded man in a long grey cloak, fastened with a brooch, and he introduced himself by asking if we'd got the note about the filing cabinet.

Note..? Eventually finding the recycled envelope and scrabbling it open, I realised Fr George, who stood in front of me, had come to see if we minded that, as outlined in the neatly typed note, a group of monks from a few doors down had carted off the cabinet because they 'could use it.' I explained that it was the landlord's, and that he had purposes for it also. A slightly disconsolate Fr George departed into the night with a promise to return the furniture.

After he'd gone and I'd stopped giggling at the incongruity, I realised that I could do the Lord and the landlord's work in one - well, I was going to say 'fell swoop', but this would have to be more of a beatific swoop I suppose, in one go, anyway. I phoned the landlord and asked if he minded that the cabinet had been, ah, 'found' by some brothers in holy orders along the road, and he gave it all of two seconds' thought before saying 'Let them have it.' (Actually he said 'let them take it', which is an unfortunate qualifier as it does me out of at least a paragraph of comical retributional misunderstanding...)

So I scampered along to number 69 and had a nice chat with Fr George, during which I established that Fr could stand for Father or Friar, as he performs both functions, and also that he used to teach English before having a 'midlife crisis' - his words, imparted with a peculiar air of self-deprecation and self-awareness that here he was, a man in his fifties, running a monastery in a terraced house in Brockley, and, well, here he was - and that they were grateful for the now-legitimately-theirs filing cabinet.

In fact, he related, as soon as it had been placed in position in its new home, the drawers had ceased to open, which had caused some concern, on both a spiritual and practical level. 'Never mind,' I joshed glibly, 'it'll work fine now you know you're allowed it!' 'Oh, I know filing cabinets,' he rejoined seriously, 'and there was definitely something up here. But we have a brother who can work on it.'

So I went home with a head full of an appealing combination of tunes by The Chemical Brothers, images of men kneeling and praying over defunct office equipment, and the Keystone Cops scenario I had orginally wanted to enact before my conscience took over, of making them bring it all the way back down the street, right up to the door, and then telling them that actually they could keep it after all, watching them issue a weary sigh of acceptance before turning and trudging back, monks beneath the metal filing cabinet, cowls flapping, the sound of liturgical chants fading with their condensing breath into the cool night air.