That old tosser, Fitz, was 50 on Tuesday. That's right, fifty.
By way of a celebration/commiseration, I met him and his latest wife in The Dispensary pub in Birkenhead that evening.
Since we were last at The Dispensary, about six weeks ago, the place seems to have adopted a jet-ski theme. This was something of a first for me. But that's not the only thing that's changed in the last six weeks. Since I last saw them, Fitz and Ms Fitz—neither of them Roman Catholics (nor at all religious, come to mention it)—have both, quite independently, started working for nuns.
(I'm not making this up.)
Fitz has been teaching Nigerian nuns numeracy and literary skills. Ms Fitz has been tidying-up in an old nuns' home.
(I'm really not making this up.)
One of the nuns in the old nuns' home is named Sister Finbar. There is also a Sister Thomas More, and a Sister Gertrude. But my personal favourite is…
(I'm really not making this up.)
Sister Mount Etna.
(No, I wouldn't believe me either.)
