Sister Cain's hidden talents

Abbot Charlie, and Brother Derek had little option to concede defeat in the matter of the Chalice of the Bonds (as their unwanted artefact should, according to Fr Crusty's photostats, be properly called). There was the little matter of the Master to deal with, however. He strode up, waving his stick in a manner that could not quite match his overwhelmingly sinister appearance, but which certainly complemented and enhanced it. Thwarted of one chalice, he began to demand the return of the green glass thingy on behalf of the gemologist ladies I think I mentioned earlier.

Sighing heavily, the abbot opened the boot of his  little two-seater Spyder and reached in to get it. Fr Crusty came out of the Rooms, accompanied by the auctioneer, and shouted at the abbot to stop and desist - and that chalices should be deconsecrated before being used for other purposes. Actually, I remembered then that I had read something similar on Fr Mildew's blog - or it might be Fr Blake's, (we didn't do much on this sort of thing when I was a student at Herstrop, so there are a few gaps in my knowledge, though I did cram a fair amount about liberation theology and the Thoughts of Chairman Kung or someone similar). Charlie, startled, dropped the chalice, and it shattered into a thousand pieces on the tarmac. Fr Crusty,as is his wont when faced with frustrating circumstances exclaimed "Sancte Michael Archangele, Defende nos in proelio", and The Master took off like a bat out of Hell.

The auctioneer peered into the boot and lifted out the pottery chalice. "I say" said he,"This looks like a genuine Myra Cain. Look - there's her mark on the bottom."

Don't use these mushrooms in your omelette today

Nuns are strange and wonderful creatures. Some cleric or other once said that hearing their confession was like being bombarded with popcorn - however Sr Myra's confessor might have had a few rock-cake sized bruises from about 1965 onwards, because she certainly had a generous interpretation of her vows, and she quitted what was left of her Order, after raising their consciousness with the aid of a few organic vegetarian mushroom omelettes to such levels that they all got on a VW minibus and set off from Virginia Beach to cross an invisible land bridge to Atlantis where they hoped to rendezvous with Edgar Cayce, and await the Second Coming.

Sister Myra had excused herself from the trip on the grounds that she had to say hasta la vista to a gigantic invisible Iberian rabbit, (or sephardic  rabbi - the inquest notes were a little unclear), and she ended up in New York where she met a nice Catholic chap called Andy Warhol, who persuaded her to anoint herself in oils of gladness and roll around on a conveniently placed canvas (perhaps he was a member of the Neo-catechumenate - I'm not awfully sure what they get up to). She sold the resulting efforts and retired to Martha's Vineyard, where she ran a little pottery workshop until her mysterious disappearance a few years ago. Our chalice was one of her earliest works, and the auctioneer reckoned it would fetch about £50k.

You see - the Chap Upstairs generally has much better ideas in mind than anything we poor members of the Church Militant can produce unaided. Fr Crusty said he would be delighted to de-consecrate the said item, and square things with Monsignor Porter, and the monks put a brave face on things (though I noted later from the catalogue that the reserve price on St Finian's chalice was rather more whopping by a factor of 10).
So there you have it. And now I must get back to work, while I anticipate Mrs McElhone's latest Fast Day triumph. You may be surprised to hear I am working on Ash Wednesday, but Canon Lewis raised the bar last year by engaging in secular occupations all the way up to 2.50 on Good Friday, and beavered away on his magnum opus on apologetics all the way through the Royal Wedding, whilst Mrs McElhone, the cavaliers and I were sitting moist-eyed on the sofa with a box of popcorn, admiring young Kate's modest attire and sparing use of attendants.