momentaria

Twas the feast of the ephiphany.
Me and my cousin Frances were breaking bread in a cafe.
The door jingled.
In walked sports writer Paul O'Meara and his wife Tess Murray, assistant editor of the Leinster Leader.
I knew them once Horatio.
Cousin Frances eyed me keenly.
"What is it?" quoth she.
"Two people have entered the cafe that I've libelled more times than I care to remember on a certain little read blog," I answered with a particularly poignant expression creasing my gentle preraphaelite features.
"Do you want me to sit up straight so that you won't be looking at them?" asked Frances kindly.
"You'd have to grow an extra foot and a half sideways as well as up," I told her gloomily.
As if by magic, the ghost of John Betjeman appeared and sat at our table.
He indicated my two former colleagues who were by now ensconced companionably and sharing a pot of tea.
"Both little lower than the angels in the tea shop's ingle nook," commented the ghost of John Betjemann.
"They're good people, aren't they John?" I mused with a certain ruefulness.
"They are Heelers," said the ghost of John Betjemann.
Now that's what I call an epiphany.