I am the last to know that you my son, haven't been at school. Meanwhile for the past months, the local vicar's been harbouring you and his equally out of control son, in his Victorian vicarage with its huge Shaker style kitchen, luscious library and ample velvet armchairs ; his tranquility is only shattered by rock music and two laughing hyena teenagers.
It's 2pm in the afternoon, so they should be locked into a geography lesson, or taking a French oral exam, or mounting the wooden horse in the gym. But no they're bouncing around the bedroom instead. Laughing up their sleeves at the stupidity of one parent and clergyman who's ripe for the plucking.
O My God ! Reverend Pratt makes me a coffee and still has one ear cocked to the radio - it's the cricket he smiles - we're doing really well. He's definitely batty.
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