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Now The Husband is getting in on my act. I’m supposed to be

the one who notices things.

Today we were in Wintoncester Cathedral’s Refectory and I spotted

something amusing on their advertising banners.  Actually, I saw

it a couple of weeks ago, but The Husband made the most fruitful

collocation, as it reminded him of Mrs Lovett’s song in Sweeney Todd.

He is a bigger fan of Sondheim than I am.

What caused the mirth and the despair?

Some bright spark had composed the following enticement:

We grow our own herbs, with as much love as our resident monks did

years ago.

They take centre stage in our Refectory menus.

This reminded us of the lyrics:

It’s priest, have a little priest

…..Sir, it’s too good, at least



Not as hearty as bishop, perhaps,

But then again

Not as bland as curate…

Trouble is

We only get it on Sundays

Have you any beadle?

Beadle isn’t bad till you smell it and

Notice ‘ow well it’s been greased.

Stick to priest.

Try the friar.

Fried it’s drier.

No, the clergy is really

Too coarse and too mealy.


Can I help you?

Two resident monks and chips. Salad on the