confessio

Casting a glance around the church I saw a light on in the confession box.
Don't really want to confess to a priest who speaks English let alone one who knows me.
Much prefer those nice foreign national priests who don't have a clue what the meaning of "lewd fantasies" is, or have the good grace to pretend they don't.
That old gag.
Ah to hell with it, thinks I.
I kneel in the confession box.
The grill thingummy slides back.
I know full well who the silhouetted Padre is and if I know him he blooming well knows me.
"Bless me Father for I have sinned. It's been a while since my last confession."
"Very good James," says Padre Baines congenially.
"It seems I'm always confessing the same things," quoth me.
"You should go out and rob a bank just for variety," respondeth he.
"Variety for me or for you?"
"For you."
"I'm not sure it would be a sin for me to rob a bank because I'm not even remotely tempted to do that," sez me. "It would be more like a sacrifice if I did it."
"I suppose that's a good thing," sez he with an air of spiritual conjecture. "I mean a good thing that you're not tempted to rob banks."
It was that kind of confession, lots of back and forth and a fairly merry conclusion even by the usual Saint Thomas Moresque standards of the ancient church.
He did look a bit weary though when I wheeled out the confession of sexual fantasies and hatred for my enemies.
I'm not sure why he gave me such a soft pennance (to say one Hail Mary). Either he was feeling merciful and compassionate towards my troubled soul or he was in a hurry to lock up the church and get back to the priest's house for supper and the evening news.