Well well

Oh and as I was wandering by the river and the canal at some remove from the fair meadows of glorious Oxon, and thinking of Brideshead Revisited and A Draughtsman's Contract, it must be said, with fond memories of the Sebastian Flytes and Fritzes that used to grace our memories in the old days of glorious evangelisation through film and Tv in the 1980s and 1990s, courtsy of the Merchant Ivory collections, I came across two charming, swish, elegant, and urbane prophets of the cloth, in their robes, two vicars of the Church of England, now much renewed in all the country parishes and monasteries and convents of the new CoE OSBs, and these spoke to me on the butterflies of the meadow, the flowers of the field, and the birds of the air. And there in their company revealed that they were talking about Canterbury. I asked them, "And what of Canterbury?" And they looked at one another, saying unto me somewhat astonied, "Surely you are not the only person in Britain and Ireland this last year who has not heard of the great things that have been happening this while in the Old Church of England, how the Archbishop had shown himself to be a great prophet, and how he had convinced many by his words and deeds, and how at last he had been handed over to the porterhouse bloggers of Cambridge? Our own hope had been that he would assume the throne of Cambridge as mighty chancellor and thus continue unabashed." I looked at them quizzically and asked who might succeed? They looked askance for a while and then said, "Oddly the local bishop of old Oxon town is but 64 summers in age, maybe he ten who shall not be named?" We shook hands, concurred, and parted company; I to the meadows with the butterflies and my butterfly net, with thoughts of meadows and A Room with a View, a la Mr Beebe, and they to the Greyhound pub not far away near Rockley Cumnor. Thus we parted. The Old from the New.