the last knight of europe takes arms from off the wall

Full of love and peace, I wandered out of the prayer group meeting and betook myself to the Parish Centre kitchen.
It was the work of a moment to begin quaffing tea and snarfing chocolate biscuits.
Presently an ex nun who is a member of the prayer group entered the kitchen.
I had been warned four months ago by Uncle Throg that she is a bit of a bitch.
In the succeeding time she had never given me any reason to dislike her and I had never let her get too close.
Now she sat at a table with a cup of tea.
"James come join me," she invited.
I thought briefly and decided that the tenets of the ancient faith required me to sit with her.
I sat.
"James," she said immediately all school Marm and business, "do you mind if I ask you where you got that chocolate biscuit?"
It hadn't taken her five seconds.
Got me within bitchin range and opened fire.
That is to say, the moment she had me within bitchin range, off she went.
Where did you get that biscuit indeed.
Gentle readers, as many of you are aware, I try not to impose arbitrary small town pecking orders on other human beings and consequently I tend not to encourage attempts by unhappy people anxious to impose arbitrary small town pecking orders on me.
Awk puck puck puck awk, as we do say in the hen house.
But the X-Nun had posed a question and was still awaiting an answer.
"I do mind you asking where I got the chocolate biscuit, Eilish," I replied. "So there'll be no need for you to ask."
"Well I was just wondering had you taken a biscuit from the Bridge Club biscuits?" she persisted.
The Bridge Club shares the parish centre with the prayer group.
"But you've asked me do I mind you asking where I got the biscuit and I've told you I do mind, so clearly there's no need for you to ask," I repeated with a firm set to my jaw.
"It's just we're not supposed to take the Bridge Club biscuits," she pressed.
"I have a dispensation from the Pope," I said grimmer than grim. "I'm allowed to take as many biscuits from the Bridge Club as I want."
"There were complaints before," she chanced.
"So you'd better not take any biscuits yourself," I advised. "If you want one, I'll steal it for you."
My intonation, diction and demeanour had become reminiscent of a young Mad Max telling the outback settlers who were surrounded by a murderous bike gang: "Two days ago I saw a lorry up the road that'd pull that tanker. You want to get out of here... You talk to me."
There was silence for a moment as I finished my biscuit.
It was an awkward enough silence by my usual standards of silences since we were both still stuck at the same table and things hadn't exactly been going swimmingly.
The mood was not mellow.
After a few more polite and convivial munches and sips, I stood up and walked back to the press where the Bridge Club biscuits were stowed. I took another one, dunked it in my tea and savoured the splendid flavour of melting chocolate and seething nun.
Then I produced one of my business cards.
The card read: The Heelers Diaries, broadcasting from metropolitan Kilcullen to the whole wide world.
On the back of it I scrawled:
"IOU.
Six biscuits.
James Healy."
I placed the business card gingerly within the package so that it was snugly resting on the top biscuit.
Of course it should have read ten biscuits.
But such details are important to history, not to poetry.