Get thee behind me, Satan.

Please forgive me fellow blippers, that dirty four letter work, the curse of the drinking classes, is interfering with my flippin blipin. Although I am on a course, I am entirely unused to having to concentrate so much. How I dislike i learning, if that's what it's called. For a gent of my advanced years, its a whole lot of learning., and I am fair jiggered when I get home. Back to today's blip, a sort of emergency ward blip. This is another one of the Enid Blyton N.T. prints. As I was discussing with one of my blipfriends yesterday, in cricketing terms, I frequently fail to trouble the scorer. Priest and church wise, it is a similar story. However, I did read once that people who undergo major surgery, and have some belief, have much better survival rates. Hedging my bets. I've been here before. I must admit, I stopped enjoying going to Sunday mass with my ma when she insisted I stay awake during the service. I didn't dare missing when at junior school, because of the version of the Spanish inquisition we has to endure at English martyrs'School. It was all entered in a big ledger. Mass, holy communion, Confession. The teacher practically interrogated those unfortunate children who posessed the additional stigma, of being from a mixed marriage. No business arrangements then, no mention of "partners" These poor boys were asked what colour the priest's vestments were. Invariably billious green, but you could see the relief of the faces of the kids who guessed right. A former workmate of mine liked to partake of a jug or two of ale, after the van dropped us off."Are you trying a flyer?" I would enquire. He would reply with, "Get the behind me, Satan." Often a flyer would develop into a lock-in. Oh dear, no wonder he used to say that.
Adios.