Hotel California

And so he goes my strummer boy.  Angel Gabriel threw his harp to one side and picked up a guitar.

He copped out of Midnight mass so I took Isaac instead.

We sat at the back so as to make a speedy exit if need be.  
Felicity, in all her Christian kindness, told us to move to the front where the old electric heaters were leaking heat into too large a space for it to be felt.  

The music was being directed by a woman who sounded like a shrieking harpie and goaded the ancient front row singers into something even worse.

I watched Père David, a big handsome man, his head down, his face hidden behind his mask and knew what he was thinking.

In a statement of solidarity we listened to his sermon, then realised we had no money for the collection.

My plan was that Isaac had come down with some kind of gastronomical bug (I didn't want him to pretend to be ill by coughing).  I passed this one by him and he nodded.  Being true to method acting techniques I left it 5 minutes and asked him if he was feeling OK.  He nodded and I hit him, so he coughed and said sorry and shook his head.  I tried again a minute later but his acting skills hadn't improved.

Père David came down from the pulpit and disappeared into a side chapel with a little girl holding a pottery Jesus.  Isaac started spluttering into his mask which I took as a good bit of method acting and clocked that this was our chance to leave.
I nudged Isaac and he stood up and ran up the aisle towards the door. As I was expecting him to be acting ill in a tummy cramp kind of way, I was disappointed but ran after him trying to look concerned.  To objective outsiders it looked like I was beating him up. 

Once outside, I did.