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
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…
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