Dean Anthony Mile, rector of Spruce, patted his hair into place, straightened his dog collar, and went down to breakfast. "Good morning, my dear," he said to Heather his wife. "And how are you this fine morning?" "Shag off, you R-sole" she replied.
The Dean blinked. "I beg your pardon, my little rose-petal, but did I mishear you? Did you employ the rougher kind of corner-boy language to address the love of your life? Where are your manners, my sugared popcorn?"
"Manners? Don't believe in them. Never have. They are a social construct designed to obfuscate the tyranny of the male institution of Christian marriage." The Dean sat down heavily, and rubbed his eyes. "My dearest candy-floss, please do not speak so disrespectfully of the sacrament which joined us as man and wife in marital bliss, and whose vows you promised to keep."
Children's hair
"Promised to keep? Well of course I did. But that doesn't mean I kept them, does it? Have you ever wondered about the colour of your children's hair and the fact that they are very athletic, when neither of us is?"
The Dean paused a moment for thought. "Well, my honey-glazed trout, my great-uncle Mervyn had red hair like the children have. And he played hockey for Ireland. I assumed it was a throwback of some sort."
"Throwback? Right first time, " said Heather, smiling dreamily. "The verger knew precisely how to throw me back." A long silence followed as the Dean grimly contemplated the verger's carrot locks and muscular form. "I think I will take some tea, my dear, if you will be so good."
Heather filled his cup, and he sipped it. "Good God!" he cried, "This tea is stone cold. When did you make it?"
"Just now. I've decided I don't believe in boiling water for tea. I think it's reactionary and superstitious. Soon no one will believe in boiling water for tea, and instead will drink tea made with cold water."
The Dean rose with a hard, set face, and declared: "I'm going to see about the car." He walked through the hall, cuffed his 10-year-old son, because he could, and stalked down to the local garage to collect his car after servicing.
"No problems, Dean," said the garageman, wiping his hands as the Dean put his key in the ignition. "It'll go like a bird now." The Dean turned the key. There was silence. Nothing. He turned it again. No longer of an especially civil humour, he asked with steel in his voice: "Why is this car not working?"
No engine
"It's working all right. It just hasn't got an engine any more. Don't believe in them. Actually never have. I used to pretend to believe in them, but I didn't in reality, so there it is. Mind how you go. The footbrake's a little stiff. It'll loosen up over the next day or so."
Flames flickering from his nostrils, the Dean strode towards the centre of Spruce, passing in front of the main convent. A head emerged from the doorway. "Good morning, Mother Superior," he intoned in recognition, relieved to be able to exhibit his traditional civility. "Morning, Dean," said the head nun as the rest of her body emerged.
"Holy Phuq, Mother," he screamed. "You're naked!"
"No I'm not. Don't you just love these sandals?"
The Dean hurriedly took off his jacket to hide the Mother Superior's unclothed form. "Pish pish," she declared. "Have no time for habits, wimples, that sort of rot, never have. Come sisters," and a crocodile of nude nuns dutifully followed her.
"Where're you going," the Dean bleated forlornly to their retreating forms.
Fire brigade
"The Anne Summers sex shop, of course. Brrrrrr," she imitated gaily. "Batteries or mains, girls?"
In the main street of Spruce, an armed Garda sergeant was holding up a bank, and the fire brigade was hosing petrol onto the burning school, while the headmistress was machine-gunning the few infants able to flee the inferno.
The Dean tottered homewards. He opened the front door. His wife was in the hall, draped in the arms of the curate's wife, Madge. The two women kissed at length before Heather looked back at him, smirked, and asked, "Tea dear?"
Dean Mile's head started from the pillow as Heather set the cup down beside him and added: "A busy day today, so don't forget the car first thing." He touched the tea-cup on the bedside table. It was, thank God, hot.