Poopey waited patiently in the luxuriously cavernous lobby of Ma-Santi, the global conglomerate with fingers in many worldwide pies, all very profitable and not many for the benefit of humankind. But what did that matter to a corporate machine engineered for profit only?
Ma-SantiToday, though, the archbishop was interested in only one pie.
‘I’m sorry, who did you say you were?’ a snooty receptionist with too much eye make-up asked.
Poopey was not to be dismissed so easily and recognised a fabricated posh accent when he heard one. ‘Where you from, sweet’art?’ he asked in his indigenous cockney accent, long time buried as he had risen up the ecclesiastic ladder, but it was still there. It is said this is what attracted Pimple’s aunt; she liked a bit of clerical rough trade.
The reception
