If Biden can rule the free world at 81, why can’t our vicar keep his rural English parish at 70?

The word plops into our pond of a parish. Interregnum. The ripples dissipate across the benefice, over the hills and through the valleys and, if you listen carefully enough, amid the screeches of the buzzards and the distant toot of a West Somerset Railway steam train, you might hear a collective sigh.