I have just received exclusive permission from the Holy Father Pope Benedict XVI himself allowing Audrey and I to walk around the lovely graveyard of St Peter’s Church on the outskirts of the village.
Apparently, according to the local vicar – a wiry man with bushy eyebrows like those belonging to Hilary Duff – the Baby Jesus himself had a word in the Pope’s ear and told him to inform the local church authorities that it is permissible for little dogs to wander around the picturesque churchyard.
Up until now, the vicar has rushed out from under his pulpit and demanded that we leave said area immediately whenever he spied us innocently endeavouring to stroll around it as part of our evening itinerary.
So nonplussed was I by our repeated exclusion that I lied and told him that my trusty manservant of twenty-five years, Smythe, was buried there and that I should like to visit his grave occasionally with my dog of whom he was especially fond. I didn’t tell him that we wander around there freely when he is not in attendance – which is often.
The tour around the yard comes at the end of our evening walk once a week. Set atop a rather steep hillside, it is a outstandingly flowery and well-maintained garden for such a parochial place of worship and provides excellent views of the Amber Valley and the surrounding countryside beyond. Audrey is very fond of the Prayer Tap which is handily situated at the northern end of the church where we often alight for several seconds to allow her to drink of the Holy Water which gushes from it’s rusty nozzle.
It appears that as soon as the Pope became aware of our illogical exclusion he kicked some clergy-ass and made the necessary phone-calls.
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