Caught napping

In this odd memoir, a “perfect man” of the Anglican clergy finds his scholarly routine shattered by a sudden, inexplicable lapse of consciousness. One moment he is perched over a fire, dissecting theological debates in the Guardian; the next he awakens in the dank darkness of an ancient Roman catacomb, candle trembling in his hand. The narrator’s bewildered commentary on the clash between his rigid doctrines and the ghostly surroundings mixes dry satire with lively observations of crumbling epitaphs and absurd errors.

As he wanders among the silent dead, his internal monologue spirals from petty grievances about school spelling to a fierce, if tongue‑in‑cheek, outrage at prayers for the departed—an anachronistic clash of Victorian sensibilities with early Christian practices. The prose balances erudite footnotes with a wry, almost theatrical voice, inviting listeners to ponder the limits of reason, faith, and the strange ways time can fold on itself. Though the journey begins in a comically cramped moment of nap‑induced dislocation, it promises a richly humorous exploration of belief, persecution, and the oddities that surface when the modern mind meets antiquity.