Sentence The Fivehundredandfortyeighth

Now, Father Mungo Macaneny was still slumbering on Auntie Crist's sofa, enjoying the creature comforts of this delightful home – so far removed from his own Parish House by Our Lady of Longformacus, overlooking the sea near Gullane, with it's cold rooms, clutter and drafts, dirty dishes and cold boiled eggs – for here there were comfortable beds, plump duvets, soft pillows, warm rooms, good porridge, tasty fry-ups, fresh new-baked bread, fine views and books a-plenty (even quite a number on the Vatican's Banned Books List which he had quickly found and several lay on the coffee table beside him, while he dreamed of Michaelangelo, rich frescoes. Papal trumpery and

pretty nuns all in a row for his inspection, "ah," he thought to himself, "those Holy Fathers of long ago had an easier time of it than I will, what with paparazzi and internet trolls and the Vatican being such a leaky bowl of Holy Water it might be hard for a man of my inclinations to keep his hands to

him . . . . .") and suddenly he felt himself hoiked back to reality, jerked awake by a firm hand and, looking up at his disturber, his body shuddered in a paroxysm of fear as he stared up at the grim countenance of a stern WPC; "sure it wasn't me," he stammered and Isa Urquhart grinned, "don't you

want the soda farls with strawberry jam and milky coffee with three sugars, Father? there they are on the coffee table – you must have been dreaming!" and as his Catholic guilt drained away and he realised where he was, colour returned to his cheeks and he mumbled his thanks to the pretty young policewoman, Crist's niece – oh, there were so many of them, and each one lovely to behold, and he could imagine them being lovely to be holding, but stifled the thought and raised his coffee mug in a toast, "Hail Shining Morn," and as they clinked mugs he thought to himself, just how lucky he was!