What can I get you, Archbishop? Tea? Coffee? A soft drink? Homemade turnip wine? Something stronger?
Give me a large port.
How about a Bloody Mary?
Be patient, Gerry Barrington and Teddy Frobisher will be here soon and they’re both bloody Marys. I’ve made canapés.
No, Batchelors mushy. I’ll pour oil on top and call it guacamole dip – they’ll be none the wiser after a few glasses of that turnip wine.
I’d like a crêpe suzette.
Upstairs second right. And my name’s not Suzette.
You’ve only got two stools, where will they sit?
No problem – Gerry can’t sit down at all until the cauterisation has healed, and Teddy will just have to plonk himself on the old pouffe.
But you’d never be able to bear his weight.
I suppose that’s what happens if you lie around all day in pyjamas eating pies. But enough about them, how are you keeping? You look a little pale and wan.
I look what?
Pale and wan.
Pale and what?
Well live and let live, ducky! To tell the truth, I have been feeling a little hoarse.
Nay. How about you?
I’m fine. It’s so nice to be appreciated at last. Everywhere I go I hear people muttering “he’s a cult” under their breath as I pass by. I’m an institution!
You mean you ought to be in an institution.
Listen, I’m sane – and I’ve got a certificate to prove it.
That’s your day-release permit.
There’s something I’ve always wondered Your Grace: are you virgo intacta?
I should warn you, by the way, about Gerry. He’s very touchy-feely. He will insist on kissing you on both cheeks. Just make sure you’re not doing your shoelaces up at the time.
I must admit I’ve been a bit depressed lately. A deadly virus is killing hundreds of thousands, fascism is on the march, the natural world is being destroyed, the economy has collapsed, charlatans and crooks are in control, and these pontifical sandals are playing merry hell with me bunions.
That’s terrible – have you tried immersing them in boiling hot salt water?
What, the sandals or the bunions?
Get thee behind me Satan.
Very well, if I must – hoist up the chasuble I’ll fetch the ghee.
You don’t use lard?
Heavens no! I’m flexitarian! Hang on, there’s the doorbell, that will be Terry and Jedi…
You mean Gerry and Teddy.
I know what I mean.
Hi guys! Come on in. I think you know the Archbishop.
We saw a dog outside licking its private parts.
I wish I could do that.
If you give him a biscuit he’ll let you.
Anyone for turnip wine?
Oh dear oh dear – self isolating is getting to you ! Ah well – at this Western edge of Wales it is wonderful not to have speed merchants zooming past at 70 mph.
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