The Snorter and the Rev are discussing lambs when I walk into the bar and as I get my drink it occurs to me that the Rev might be finding the conversation painful on account of all that religious imagery. As I sit down he gives me an anguished look, the Rev has a bag of winter mixtures in front of him which suggests the onset of tonsillitis.
"How did it go then?" I ask him, the Rev had been well for a week and therefore had had to deliver a sermon at the Monday WI Matins.
"Well I took as my text the dying words of Henry the Eighth, 'All is lost! Monks! Monks! Monks!' It seemed to go down quite well, at least the Wymsey WI are a polite lot and my headache is beginning to recede."
"I really think that you need to look at why you persist in that job." I tell him.
"I know, Gordon says the same; he wants me to join him on a workshop called 'Father, Son.'
"What no holy ghost?"
The Snorter receives a kick in the shins, "Your round Snorter."
While he is at the bar I invite the Rev to share next Sunday's roast, "You know if you are ever decide to give up trying to save souls my house has plenty of room."