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!
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