A Trollchester Auction

The Master

Phew! Quite a day today, all told. Now I am tucked up in bed with some cocoa, Herman the German, and my laptop, and I expect you are all waiting to find out if Abbot Charlie got enough to buy his pews at the auction in Trollchester today. Having prayed all the way on the train for inspiration, I got to the Auction Rooms and surveyed the chamber, wondering what sort of person buys this sort of thing. There was a tall bearded chap looking rather like the Master in Dr Who (not the Life on Mars Johnny or I Claudius - I mean the old fellow who was the Third Doctor's adversary - played with elan by Roger Delgado). Slightly sinister piece of work, with a purple cloak, a skull-topped cane, and the sort of eyebrows that would give Damian Thompson a hissy fit.

There was a large preponderance of chaps in Gannex raincoats buttoned up to the collar, with their heads obscured by catalogues which they were reading myopically and intently. They looked vaguely familiar, I have to say. One particular old chap was the absolute spit of Fr Crusty. In fact when I pushed my glasses well up onto my nose, I saw it was indeed  our dear old Dean, and strode over to greet him. "Sssh" he whispered in his quavery old tenor voice - "I'm here incognito". That gave me quite a shock, as I have seen this Incognito chappie on Damian's blog, and he seems to get blasted by the moderators at every turn - goodness knows what vile blasphemieshe must be uttering devant les enfants terribles to merit that sort of treatment. I made a note to speak to him rather harshly over an amontillado at the next deanery bash, but he interrupted me. "I'm here to save the priceless Chalice of St Finian from desecration and destruction". 

Apparently Charlie's choice of chalice was rather unfortunate. St Finian shone like a good deed in a naughty Dark Age. He was recruited by St Madoc, in 500 and something and whatever sort of teacher training they did in seminary in those days, it would certainly not go astray in our own dear Herstrop College. He filled the fields of Clonard with lashings of monks and priests, and in 560 or thereabouts he decided to come back over here in his coracle, and show the Welsh and Scots how it was done. Unfortunately he got rather lost in our neck of the woods and possibly forgot to pack his travelling chalice in his rucksack while being chased north by the pagan Saxons. Easily done - I can't tell you the number of umbrellas I have lost this way. 

Anyway, Fr Crusty had a folder full of photostats proving ownership, and a gleam in his eye. The bidding had started, and was getting heated. The Master was  bidding against the men in raincoats, and they were all bidding against each other. As things hotted up, coats were undone, and, I realised too late, so were the owners. For beneath the musty mackintoshes were a collection of dog collars seldom seen in such profusion outside a Eucharistic Congress. Goodness - this was going to bankrupt the Diocese. 

Then Fr Crusty stood up and shouted in the tone of voice that he usually kept for contraceptors and Eucharistic Ministers who turn up in sandals "'In the name of the Law of England and Wales I declare to all present that the object being Lot 66, described as a Cup is being put to auction without the consent of the owners, said object being in the ownership of The Diocese of Trollbridge. I being Fr Crusty from Richham Magna claim ownership to the said object." Obviously this caused no small confusion in the ranks, so I  grabbed Fr Crusty, and the chalice - and the Auctioneer and various of the unsuccessful bidders followed into the ante-room. 

I'll save what followed for tomorrow's post, as I got a little carried away typing, and spilt my cocoa all over poor Herman. He bore it stoically, but I had better go and sponge him down, as ancient teddies, like ancient chalices deserve respectful treatment and a spot of tlc. TTFN