St. Andrews and St. Margarets, a small Anglican church, on Monroe Avenue in Alexandria, Virginia, is a conservative place.

The church congregation still reads from the 1928 Book of Common Prayer and sings from the 1940 Episcopal hymnal. Men wear dark suits or military uniforms;the women wear dresses and hats.

So when I slipped into the last pew a few minutes into the service, I wasn’t expecting anything unusual. The Shakespeare-era language of the prayer book enveloped me and carried me along, as always.

Then came the sermon. Just as Father Nick started to speak, I heard a crunch. Then another one.

Could there be cockroaches in this old church?

Then a third crrruuunnch!

I looked over at the tall stranger sharing my pew.

He was clipping his nails during the sermon. I couldn’t believe it.

I coughed slightly.

A fourth nail was loudly clipped away.

I coughed a little more loudly.

He was either ignoring me or the shattering sound of his brittle nails being pared away crowded out my feeble coughs.

He positioned the silver clipper over his thumb nail. CRUNCH!

He was driving me crazy. But, I thought, at least he is done.

Then he started on the other hand.

I had no choice. I had to do something.

But what?

Crunch! Number six!

Do I say something? What he responds, loudly?

Crunch, number seven.

I cleared my throat as loudly as I dared.

Crunch, number eight.

Ok, Ok, I will just ignore…

CRUNCH! (Number nine, but who is counting?)

…him somehow.

Crunch!

Ok, that was number ten. If he doesn’t take off his shoes, he is done.

I watched him carefully gather up the ten nail shards and put them in his blazer pocket. Then, he opened another flap and deposited the clipper. Whew.

Later in the service, he joined the line for communion. The usher stopped me. The altar rail was full. (Yes, parishioners still kneel at the altar rail for communion.) I would have to wait.

The usher was Harry Lowcocks, a former subject of her Brittanic majesty who may have left his homeland but kept his dry English wit. I motioned for him to come closer and whispered the story.

He looked puzzled for a moment and then found the perfect words: “Pity he didn’t save the nail clipping for the communion rail.”