The bells were ringing out, we gather, far to the south, where a friend of ours was elected Abbot of D——. Everybody, but everybody, was there, so we are told by the Martyrologist, who was one of them — if some ill-wisher had dropped a bomb on the Abbey, every posh papist in England would have gone up with it, I gather. I’m sure it was all very nice. The dogs were under a firm impression that the Gyrovague in question, who likes his dinner, had been elected as member for the Food Party, and of course, thoroughly approved. This was confirmed by the Martyrologist; the genteel beano which followed the actual election involved five kinds of cake, and cream horns made with clotted cream. I think that the monks are going to find themselves facing a great deal less wholemeal bread and lentil soup in the next few years.