Rash Judgement.

Let's see now - where had I got up to with this interminable saga about the chalices?

Ah yes. All the interested parties were gathered in the ante-chamber, which (as those who remember Aristotle will realise), is the venue for all the real action taking place. The Auctioneer looked about as happy as Cardinal Siri after the 1958 Enclave (a favourite expression of Mgr Porter - not sure what it means). The Master was twiddling the knob on his cane and muttering something about Belle Isle. Strange time to be thinking about a tourist resort in Michigan, but as I said, he did seem a few dolly mixtures short of a quarter at the best of times, imho. My scapular began to itch terribly for some unknown reason (Note to Mrs McElhone to switch to Non-Bio - which will have the added benefit of restoring my shattered credentials with the Justice-and-Green-Peace chaps and chapesses who gave me grief for eating a KitKat on camera at the CWL knees up last week).

The Judgment of Paris (Bally hot in the Auction Rooms)

The auctioneer was scrutinising Fr Crusty's photostats with horror, and shook his head with such vigour that a cloud of dandruff descended onto his pinstriped shoulders like confetti at a Traveller wedding (Note to Fr Crusty that he is not to make a big scene at Travellers' nuptials about whether they have been supping Cava in the stretch limo within the Communion Fast period, as last year's First Communion cancellations were a sore point with the church cleaners, though the lady from Channel 4 seemed quite happy, and wrote to me last week saying the cameraman's operation had gone well).

"I'm sorry - you will have to sort this one out between yourselves" he said, and all eyes turned to me. Rather a Judgement of Paris moment, except with chalices rather than golden apples, and Fr Crusty, Abbot Charlie, and  The Master standing in for Pallas Athene, Hera and Aphrodite, in no particular order. I wracked my brains trying to think which choice would result in Ultimate Wisdom, and which one was potentially trouble like Helen of Troy (to be avoided at all costs if I'm not to end up under siege from newspaper reporters). Couldn't remember for the life of me what Hera had promised, but it gave me the idea of asking for help from a female who really knows what's what, and so I offered up a plea silently for help.

More later - Mrs McElhone is insisting I appear with hands washed at the lunch table, because a man can wait for an omelette, but an omelette can't wait for a man. TTFN