Spread Out to Dry

H here, with grim news from Anila.

FDH has, as you know, moved on from here to cast his shadow over St. Bertha's. Anila, the young and perfectly gossipy curate there, has been on the phone this evening with a strange tale of events.

FDH appears to have adopted Carthusian ways during his stay with them; that is, he has taken to spending half his night awake. Anila, gentle trusting soul that she is, had assumed his time was taken with nocturnal prayer and vigilance - much as advocated by our Lord Himself.

It transpires, however, that FDH has not been on his knees to God but in front of the television glued to the nightly Test cricket transmissions from Australia. This she discovered last night when, in search of small hours refreshment during a bout of insomnia, she discovered the Archdeacon slumped in the lounge uttering small moans as the triumphant Aussies were beginning to conduct their crowing post-match interviews.

Assuming, once more as the soul gentle and trusting, that FDH was patriotically mourning his side's defeat - nay humiliation - she had offered a few generic words of comfort and encouragement along the lines of "Never mind, it's only a game" and "I'm sure they'll do better next time." (I do sometimes wonder about Anila's fitness to be a curator of souls if she can utter such inanities, but that is beside the point in question here.)

Anyways, the howling, snarling response her words of c & e received from FDH was enough it seems nearly to frighten the woman out of the modicum of wits the Good Creator has allotted her. Fearing almost for her very safety she had beat an instant and more than hasty retreat from the room. Snatching a swift glass of milk from the kitchen larder - her original quest - she had tiptoed back passed the lounge door, hoping not any further to disturb or derange her troubled guest only very oddly to hear him on the telephone conducting a clearly pained discussion with the item on the other end of the line.

Anila could not be certain of the meaning of this half-heard conversation, but she relayed to me something of the words heard from her end. Much along the lines of "Look here, just because I bought at 300 for 20 doesn't mean I'm about to stand fast while you empty my account of every last note prior to sending me a bill for several thousands more."

A curious and unexplained gap in my own catholic knowledge of life precluded me from making much of this report, until I decided to chance fate and lay it all before dear PP - not for one moment expecting him to have more gen on the matter than myself of course, but rather merely to allow his subsequent ruminant thoughts to provoke my own sharper mind into affirmative action.

Much to my surprise - not to mention somewhat to my annoyance - dear PP turned out to know somethings that I didn't. Knowledge in the First Part: the content of the conversation was clearly to do with the limitless horror of spread betting; Knowledge in the Second Part: the Archdeacon is a fervent nay helpless gambler; and Knowledge in the Third Part: the poor man had clearly come a mighty if not bottomless cropper over the winning margin of runs scored by Australia.

I have just re-telephoned Anila to pass on two essential pieces of information resulting from my conflab with dear PP: lock up the silver chalices at once and prepare to receive dear PP who is on his way over to see the Archdeacon this instant!

One small blessing in all of this - 'twill be a long if e'er before Anila says of anything to anyone "Never mind, it's only a game." I'm off to dear PP's study for a good glass of the malt that he doesn't think I know is there!