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Does a vicar’s daughter tell fibs? Surely not.

Goodness! Who now doubts the pen is mightier than the sword? With several flourishes, President Trumpelstiltskin begins his revolution, so it is away with this and away with that. Of course, this has not gone down well with all the snowflakes, who are melting with fury in the glare of Washington’s new dawn. The Jupiter reports that women all over the world have been marching up and down in protest, wailing against a man they despise, a man who will rob them of their human rights. Interestingly, they haven’t protested outside the various Arabian embassies against female genital mutilation, forced child marriages and patriarchal oppression for fear of giving offence, which makes me question their commitment to feminism somewhat. Why do I mention this? Well, the Jupiter report on petticoat-power inspired the ladies of the Barchester Anti-flatulence League to stage their own protest in the Cathedral Square:

“No more Trumping!” they cried, “Trump Not that ye be not Trumped!” and “To Trump is to Offend!”

I think several wires got crossed with that one. So much hot air, and none of it fragrant. However, I was determined to find out more, and sent Mr. Slope off, suitably disguised in crinoline, shawl and poke bonnet, to take soundings. Alas, I am still waiting his return. Mr. Bunce said he was last seen arm in arm with a Jolly Jack Tar heading for the ‘Ferret and Trousers” on Fumble Street. No bedtime cocoa for him!

When my Lord the Bishop mentioned, in a letter to an American clergyman, that it was necessary to embark on a major fund-raising campaign to repair the wall of the North transept, he had no idea of what was to come. Only yesterday, the doorbell rang and Spasm, our butler, went to see who it was. He quickly returned, eyes popping and all of a fluster.

“Madam, there are some Mexican gentlemen awaiting your pleasure outside.”

Naturally, I went immediately, for opportunities like these are few and far between. There on the step were some twenty or thirty sombrero-topped Latinos with hods, trowels and bags of cement.

“We are lend-lease from El Presidente Trumpero,” said one, “We come fix the wall.” He flashed a smile of dazzling white and twirled a roguish moustache.

It appears President Trump heard of our plight and sent on the vanguard of his workforce to be of assistance. So very kind. They set to work immediately, and before the day was out the stonework was as good as new and the gargoyles had smiles on their faces. When they said their ‘Adios’ and strode into the sunset, one could not help feeling a little Zorro…

I see Lola Montez has managed to bamboozle the Supreme Court into supporting her anti-Brexit challenge (she goes by another name now but I would recognise that dusky minx anywhere, flashing her briefs about like no tomorrow, all because she got her hands on poor King Ludwig’s family jewels). So Parliament must now vote on leaving the Zollverein, or at least on triggering Article 50. (One would have thought 39 Articles were enough for anyone). How very vexing for Mrs. Dismay: almost as vexing as finding a couturier who doesn’t make her look like Joseph Grimaldi’s sister. There is one delicious aspect to this debacle, and that is the poisoned dwarf across the border has been denied a say in negotiations, and on this Burns Night is forced to eat humble pie, not haggis. We too shall dine on haggis: one feels one has had a surfeit of sturgeon.

Of course, Mrs. Dismay has other worries, some involving missiles that go astray. Plenty of that sort of thing went on at Balaclava when Miss Nightingale’s gentle hands brought relief to wounded soldiers. All sorts of things came poking through the tent flaps – it was a good thing that she was trained to disarm them with a quick flick of the wrist. Mrs. Dismay’s missile however packed a bigger punch than anything Johnnie Turk threw at us, so the incident could have been nasty. The question seems to be – did she know things had gone wrong when speaking to the House of Commons in a debate on Trident or not? Does a vicar’s daughter tell fibs? Surely not.

Well, my dears, I must dash. I am organising a charity tombola in the Chapter House on behalf of the dispossessed hereditary peerage. After centuries of service to crown and country these poor souls were booted out of the House of Lords by the Beastly Blair, and are desperately in need of succour. If only Mrs. Dismay could call upon their support when the Brexit Bill goes to the Upper House, but alas she cannot. There is talk of ‘Sunset Peers’, a strange concept indeed, but then so is papal infallibility and the morality of neo-Liberals. Until next week, may the tweeting of Faith echo across the slough of despond, and the darling buds of May remain a mystery to us all.