The Reverend J. Clarence McGonigall groaned as he sat at his desk in the study. In fact, that's how he began each day. It was part of a daily liturgy. 'Oh, God,' it always began, followed by what sounded like excerpts from the Book of Lamentations.

The cause of the groaning was the inevitable stack of mail. As always, most of the paperwork was from the headquarters of the Presbyterian Church (Scotland) in Livingston. Clarence complained to God that the community of faith had turned into a law-worshipping civil service which inflicted death by a thousand memos.

'Lord,' he shouted, 'I want to be a minister of the gospel, a preacher, a pastor, not a form-filling, head-counting clerk.' Squeegee wagged her tail. 'Nurses can't get on with nursing because they're deaved to death with paperwork. Doctors can hardly doctor, for filling up endless reports. Teachers can hardly get on with the task of shovelling information into reluctant bairns. Farmers spend more time shuffling documents than shovelling dung. The lunatics have taken over the asylum.'

Squeegee nodded her head. She was used to these morning expositions. She often howled as her master exhorted the Lord to spare him any more nonsense. It was Presbyterian choral morningsong.

Clarence had once sent a letter to Livingston. complaining about the volume of mail. In it, he had quoted a missive from the Duke of Wellington to the Secretary of State for War in 1810: 'My Lords, if I attempted to answer the mass of futile correspondence that surrounds me, I should be debarred from all serious business of campaigning. I must remind your Lordships, for the last time, that so long as I hold an independent position, I shall see to it that no officer under my command is debarred, by attending to this futile drivelling of mere quill driving in your Lordships' office, from attending to his first duty, which is always to train the private soldiers under his command. Your obedient servant, Wellington.'

In their reply, the Livingston mullahs had threatened to reduce Clarence's bonuses. He cast his eye again over the pile of envelopes.

'How long, O Lord, how long?' cried Clarence.

'Till May, you auld grump,' cackled his wife Agnes, as she stuck her head -- adorned with curlers -- in the study doorway. 'That's when you retire. Have you forgotten already? It's time you were taken into care. I think I'll phone Livingston and tell them their favourite minister has finally lost the plot.'

'I knew I should have married Brigitte Bardot when I had the chance,' responded Clarence.

'I presume it was the prospect of Scunner manse that put her off,' replied Aggle. 'If it hadn't been for that, she would have leapt into the arms of the Don Juan of Inversnecky.

'Anyway, isn't it time you stopped moaning about these nice people in Livingston, Clarence? You blame them for everything, from the spread of mad cow disease among ministers to the collapse of western Christendom. And why are you complaining about all this to God? He must go straight into a coma every time you start.'

Worsted yet again, Clarence opened the first letter. It had the familiar yellow Mr Happy and the 'Smile with Jesus!' slogan along the top. How Clarence hated that image! All clergy had been given free Mr Happy stickers to put on their cars, but he had resolutely refused. Instead, he put a hand-done message on the rear of his old, stuttering, banger which read, 'This car is God's way of telling you to slow down'. Irate motorists would honk at him -- even in Inversnecky -- but he would simply wave cheerfully in response.

'Missive number three million, three thousand, three hundred and three from the palace of laughter in Livingston,' muttered Clarence, as he started to read the letter. 'This is what they do to while away the weary hours till the Second Coming.'

The letter said he and Aggie had to attend a compulsory residential retirement course.