“Get out of here, get out of here, there’s definitely something wrong in this place…,” the vicar said in a bewildered voice, before standing up and leaving us behind…

My wife and I had recently taken out a mortgage for a lovely flat in a freshly built neighbourhood, all shiny and new but still smelling faintly of plaster and wet paint. We simply must have it blessed! declared my grandmother with a certainty that echoed down the hallways. No ones ever lived here before and we cant risk misfortune befalling us without Gods blessing. My mother promptly agreed: Of course, the house needs consecratingwe cant afford any troubles. Happiness, joy, and prosperity must fill our new home! Even though we hesitated at first, the familys eager insistence swept us along, and so we planned a blessing ceremony.

Its absolutely necessary, Granny intoned, her voice brooking no argument. On the appointed day, as the clock chimed three, the doorbell rang and there stood the vicara peculiar old man with a shock of silver hair and a bristly beard that seemed to have grown in zigzags. A heavy cross dangled from a chunky chain round his neck, and in his hands, he balanced a battered satchel and a censer that jangled like coins. He handed each of us a candle and began to describe, in the grandest tones, the ritual to come.

My dear ones, boomed the vicar, light your candles and follow closely behind. We shuffled in line, expecting some solemn, halos-and-hush affair. But the moment my father attempted to light his candle, pandemonium broke loosethe wick spat, hissed, and refused stubbornly to catch, sending only thin tendrils of smoke upwards. Try as we might, the candle wouldnt obey. After several failed attempts, the vicar snatched up his oddments and stuffed them hurriedly back into his bag.

Out, out, out! Theres something dreadfully wrong here he muttered, looking over his shoulder, the whites of his eyes wide as dinner plates. Not pausing to bless us further, he bolted from the flat, leaving us gaping and uncertain in the sudden hush.

A bizarre vicar, and an even stranger candle, mused my wife, noticing the vicars own candle now burning merrily on the landing.

Perhaps he was just in a peculiar mood, joked my mother, attempting to lighten the air that hung thick with unease.

He talks a good talk, but then scarpers at the end. Probably, wherever hes off to, the Wi-Fi is even worse, I thought, searching for a glimmer of humour in this surreal encounter. Where could we even run to? Were chained here for the next fifteen years by our bills, I added with a wry grin.

So do we stay put, or look for another vicar? Grannys voice pierced the silence, steering us all back to the odd reality, urging us to find a way out of this topsy-turvy predicament.