H Is For Heaven

Park Under The Arch, Bishop

Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHON

Recently, I was taking some shots at St Paul’s Cathedral here in Melbourne. As always, I was looking for a "different" shot, something out of the ordinary. I took several shots inside the Gothic building and finally emerged just as the clouds started to clear. That's when I saw a vintage wedding car outside the cathedral and much to my delight, I "saw" my ideal shot in the polished, curved roof of the old sedan.

But I guess the shot (above) also inspired me to write this "H" post for today, along with the shots that I took inside the cathedral. So let me take you back a few years .....

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the city
Not a car park was vacant, for the writer of this ditty

Sometimes a bloke’s gotta do what a bloke’s gotta do. Right? Let me emphasise that I am a law-abiding citizen, but here’s a yarn my family will never let me live down.

About fifteen years ago, after a great Christmas Eve dinner with our closest friends, we decided that instead of going to Midnight Mass at our local church, we would drive into the city and attend Mass at St Patrick’s Cathedral.

You don’t need to be a member of Mensa to work out that parking in the city is never a piece of cake. And on Christmas Eve? Well, you need a miracle on the scale of the Parting of the Red Sea.

I must also point out that while our motley assemblage of young parents and very little children had planned to be in the Cathedral by about 11.30 pm, things ran a little behind schedule. Okay, so things ran a long way behind schedule.


There were about four cars. And by the time we got to Flinders Street in the central business district, through heavy traffic, let’s just say it was a little too close to midnight for comfort.

Let me just say that I inherited compassion and many other lyrical traits from my very gifted, very blessed mother. But I also inherited the gift of lateral thinking from my very hard-working father.

So I didn’t waste time driving into any of the high-rise car parks in the vicinity of the cathedral. The odds of finding a spot there were, collectively, a far longer shot than the prospect of a three-legged rocking horse winning the Melbourne Cup. Instead, I noticed that the boom gate in the Cathedral car park was up.

What would you do in such a situation? You’d drive in, wouldn’t you?

"You can’t do that," said Mrs Authorblog, aghast.

"Why not?" I replied. I muttered something unintelligible about an open boom gate on Christmas Eve being a sign from the Heavens.

"You can’t say that," she said in horror, no doubt waiting for the bolt of lightning that would surely hit me in divine retribution.

That’s when we saw the entire religious procession, in their magnificent robes, leaving the vestry for the main body of the church. There were altar boys. There were choristers. There were priests. There were all manner of official-looking people of all ages, shapes and sizes. Everyone who was anyone in the Cathedral hierarchy was here.

Just then, I saw a vacant spot in the Cathedral car park. Only one solitary vacant spot. To me, it was like the guiding star in the East.

I swung the wheel towards the parking spot. But there was one problem. A very prominent sign said in bold letters: "Reserved for the Archbishop’s car".


This is where the Lateral Thinking Gene kicked in.

The Archbishop, surely, was in the procession that had just walked past us, towards the main door of the Cathedral. There is no way he, of all people, would be late for Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve.

So I swung neatly into the parking spot. I thought the devout Mrs Authorblog was about to have a heart attack.

By the time all our friends finally caught up with us inside the Cathedral, they all wanted to know where on earth I had found a parking spot. And when I told them, they wouldn’t believe me. Until Mrs Authorblog, fortified by the promise of smelling salts, confirmed my claim.

That’s why I still get nervous in thunderstorms. I always wonder if there’s a bolt of lightning with my name on it.

For the home of ABC Wednesday, go to Mrs Nesbitt's Place.