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It was the day before the fete and the friar was checking everything one last time. All was looking good. Tents were up and stable, areas for the races marked out and the roses were looking lovely. He was standing looking at the scene when one of the novices asked him if he would like to try out the archery range. Why not. He took the profered long bow, settled an arrow on the string, drew the bow, took aim and released. Let's leave the arrow in mid air for a moment, all a-quiver. At the other end of the green, the Abbot is walking his pet wombat, Brutus. Back to the arrow. Friar Tuck gives a squeal of delight as it hits the centre of the target. Unfortunately the arrow passes through the target and continues towards the end of the green. There is a second squeal. And, after a pause, a third.

Dear Mr Justice,

How are you today? Well, I trust.

I have had a long and trying day and after I have written this letter shall retire to my room for a small glass of spiritual forgiveness. Possibly two. It is at moments like this that I reflect on just how nice it will be once we construct the sauna planned for the west wing.

Do you have any idea on how to cook a wombat? I would be interested in your thoughts if you do but, if not, never mind.

I have attached a Letter of Guarantee. I hope it meets your needs.

Yours in Christ,

Friar Augustus Tuck.

He rained flesh upon them as dust, and feathered fowls like as the sand of the sea.

- Psalm 78:27

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