Brass

Cleaning isn't really my thing. There are many things I'd rather do than clean my house (Mr B does it instead) and I never really saw myself as a Martha in church matters. But hey, I have a friend whose company I enjoy and our occasional months as church cleaners provide the chance for shared chat - some serious, some hilarious. This friend knows me well enough to suggest that while she hoovers or does clever things with waxicles I should 'do something' about the eagle.

And I have to say this is a kind of cleaning I take satisfaction in. Perhaps it takes me back to my childhood, when I would be detailed to polish the brass doorstep, but whatever it is it makes the black hands, disgusting nails and backache worth it to see the whiteness of polished brass replace the dull gold and spattered base of the lectern's recent sojourn in storage. At one time, of course, in common with all Victorian brass, the eagle was lacquered, thereby obviating the need for polishing - who, I wonder, was the first to decide to polish the lacquer off?

This time I did it in two goes - it's a long job, and the barley-sugar whorls in the stand are the worst bit of all (you can't see them in this pic - they're further down). The base takes some reaching, and the strange, three-toed feet (complete with toenails) still have lacquer clinging to them. Every time I do this job, I hit my head on the pointed edge of the bookshelf that runs along the bottom of the tail feathers, and every time I think that this is surely the very hardest thing I ever injure myself on.

But he looks good now. I love doing the feathers and the head. And in my head, I call him Clarence. Don't ask me why. It might be these repeated blows to the head ...