A strange thing happened after saying the first Mass of the evening. I went to visit a parishioner's friend, just to say a cheery Merry Christmas and she asked:
"Where are you from?"
"England," I replied.
"Yes, I can see that. But where from?"
"I love London. My friends say 'where do you stay when you go to Europe?' I tell them 'London, of course, it is the best of those cities.'"
I agreed because I was being polite and thought she was right. But where did she stay when she went to "Town"? She liked the Dorchester, understandably, and I told her that I saw Mr. Cash there once, in the restaurant. He was wearing black, predictably. She liked that and told me a story about a Roman Catholic priest who took his dogs to Mass.
Nothing too weird abut that, you think. Just another snobby LSP conversation. But not so fast. As I was leaving, my friend showed me the garage, which was large. And just as well, because it held about as many vintage Rolls Royce motor cars as I've ever seen. A lot, and all of them immaculate.
This happened in Slap-Out Texas, aka Hubbard.