Some amusement this morning when little Episcopa managed to confuse the name of the day when the Beaker Fold traditionally boil up the Yuletide Plum Pudding. "Stir-up Sunday."
Although to be fair, "Screw-up Sunday" didn't seem such a bad description. The plainchant was wrecked by Denniz's drum solo. The Little Sisters of the Holy Herring, our enclosed order of discalced penguins, refused to process because it was so cold. And the attempt by Frangipanne to sing a top "A" as part of the descant to "Majesty, Worship His Majesty" resulted in her straining a tonsil.
To make matters worse, we couldn't get into the Moot House to start the service on time because Hnaef, inspired by the idea that the Church was called out to God's people rather than being called together to worship, had changed all the locks.
So maybe Episcopa is right. Screw-up Sunday it is.
The fashion for high soprano's trying to reach the heights is that it sets the burglar alarm off and the windows pop in their frames. We discourage it, or advise them to go outside to the road so that people can hear them and throw old boots, eggs and rotten tomatoes at them. This discourages them no end.
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