That's no' a real dug

We continue to rehearse under a cloud. Not a nasty, wicked cloud of acrimony which is turning us all into enemies, you will be pleased to hear, but an actual cloud that continues to piss rain down from the sky and make us wet.

Well, I say it's making us wet - for much of the rehearsals we have had the luxurious rooms of our venerable patron, which are equipped not only with a roof but also a kettle. So we're dry and full of tea, though we've now run out of milk and we didn't pay for that in the first place. We may have to move onto the whisky.

In any case, tomorrow we are decamping to Wiltshire, which is of course known for its lovely equatorial climate, so we should be in for some glorious weather and tans all round.

We shall have to say a sad goodbye to these theological surroundings, books with titles as exciting as "The changing face of the Priesthood" and "Theology". And Father Ian's CD collection, which has some Bach which Andrew Ormerod thinks is too slow, some Elgar which I know is most definitely too slow (but then it often is) and most extraordinarily some Celine Dion which frankly could be going at any speed for all we want to listen to it.

And a picture of the Pope lighting a candle with the former Archbishop of Canterbury. George Carey's facial expression suggests that he is thinking "I know he's important, but I can't quite remember what for," whilst the Pope is probably thinking something in Latin and hoping that he doesn't drop his taper.