No Shoes in Salwa

There’a new kid on the block. When my son was four we had a friend who became a monk who used to visit us from time to time, in habit and sandals. My son tugged my sleeve…’Is that Jesus?’ he whispered. The children in the basement on Friday morning might have thought similarly, tugging their own parent’s sleeve. The new kid showed up in a white cassock, ropes perfectly folded and a particularly tasteful stole and  strode around the congregation, winning hearts and minds, my own included. Someone I know was desperate to get a picture. Of his bare feet. Short of a camel-hair coat and insectivorous appetites, the effect was electric. They eyes had it, looking as if they had seen their fair share of the works of the Devil over the years and seemed more than prepared to get down and dirty should the occasion arise. He showed up at an Embassy gig later in the day, the Bishop’s Finger (ABV 5.4%) not having run out and requiring transformation.
I am impressed. With some reluctance.

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