The Bristol Beacon, dark and silent, loomed out of the murk. A chorus of expectation swelled from the crowd as a truck pulled up on Broad Quay. They surged forward, hungry and expectant. But the police cordon, scruffy and unshaven, some in helmets, some in flat caps, one even in a tattered stab vest, held. […]
The villagers love Monsieur le Curé. He isn’t perfect, but who would dare to make their confession to a perfect priest? One would slither away from the church door, one would shrivel with shame like a salted slug. Père Jean is so plump that not even his unbelted cassock hides his round belly. Grateful parishioners
More sacred than the confessional Read More »
