We could not handle the noise and general blathery of Our Last Home; the installation of a Female Bishop was the last straw.
My faithful Secretary, Mr. Bickerstaff, has been working on accommodation ever since The Woman took possession (and I use the word advisedly) of our cathedral.
We attempted to emigrate, but alas, it appears England is in the grip of the Scots killjoys and puritans, and besides, although I offered to sell Bickerstaff into white slavery and/or indebtured servitude to pay my, that is our, passage, the market is a little depressed at the moment--I blame the recession.
So, tricorn hat and cane in hand, we have come to rest in Another Place--still on the fair shores of Our Dominion, and, alas, still saddled with a useless secretary.
We do, however, have a specially blessed new laptop, which we are Hopeful will not succumb to attacks of The Vapours. We are still here, and there are many words to be written, much folly to be exposed, so many sermons to be preached--and correspondence by the bucket-load.
Whatever have you done without my Spiritual Guidance and Comfort?
Never fear--Dr. Swift is still here.
More's the pity--Ed.
St. Patrick and the monkish wealth of nations
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