with lemon-tinted bifocals ready to fend off unwelcome intruders to his bloodshot peepers , and tattered moccasins champing at the bit as they snuggle up to threadbare cotton socks ( one black , one navy blue ) , the reverend colin wheatsheaf double checks himself in his lopsided hall mirror , begrudgingly accepts what he sees , snatches his day-glo cycling helmet from a bereaved hat stand , and is gone .