Holier Than Thou

    I had my morning coffee in a small cafe near my flat. At a nearby table five women sat. They were some sort of ministers for some kind of church. They were planning their itinerary for the coming fortnight. The very fat one was wearing a vicar's white collar; the rest were in normal clothing. Every so often the fat one erupted with a maniacal, too-loud laugh at her own comments. It was the oft-heard laugh of the hysteric; if she realised just how this orgasm-substitute of a laugh clearly indicated her sexual repression she would never laugh in public again. They chatted on about this parish, and that diocese, and various persons "in desperate need of ministry" until I fairly wanted to spit at them. I looked at their smug, self-righteous faces and their brows, all furrowed in self-aggrandising concern, and I felt nauseated. My coffee finished, I rose to leave and as I past their table I growled, "Pigs!" Their fluting conversation abruptly stopped as I made my way to the counter to pay my bill, only to start up again with their vile rubbish as I stepped out into the street.

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