Free Clovenhoof by Heide Goody, Iain Grant

he even remembered to give them money as well.
    As a final flourish to demonstrate how familiar he’d become with the ritual of shopping he slapped his buttocks and winked to the woman on Customer Service as he passed her on the way out.
    Two old ladies were next in line at the checkout.
    “He seemed cheerful, Doris. Maybe we should get what he’s having?” said the first, unloading her basket.
    “I don’t think so. I’m quite happy with my Edam, thank you Betty,” said the other primly, patting the enormous cheese in her basket.
    “Is that all you’re getting? Look, I’ve bought lots.”
    “Yes,” said Doris, “but four bottles of sherry won’t last you long. What’s that other stuff you have there, tofu? Never heard of it.”
    “It’s easy on my dentures. I read it in a magazine.”
    Doris pursed her lips.
    “What have I told you about those magazines, Betty? That pesto’s never coming out of that carpet.”
     

 
     
Matters Arising
The Shaker Enclave
Seraphim Rota
Earthly visitations
The Throne
Clovenhoof
AOB
     
    The Archangel Gabriel tidied his papers noisily.
    “I don’t see how it is appropriate.”
    Pope Pius XII leant across the table.
    “I am merely sharing what the modern faithful are expecting.”
    “Because their heads are full of Hollywood movies and Saturday morning cartoons?”
    The Archangel Michael, chairing, tried to intervene.
    “Heaven is a place of music.”
    “But a harp for every angel?” said Gabriel. “Dry ice in the streets?”
    Pius adjusted his glasses.
    “Clouds and harps. That’s all I’m saying.”
    “Maybe we can intwoduce them to one quarter of the Celestial City,” suggested St Francis of Assisi. “For a twial pewiod.”
    “And create further balkanisation?” said Michael. “We have enough trouble getting the different denominations to mingle. I’m not going to carve up the City like a theme park with Ye Olde Harps and Clouds Heaven tucked away in one corner.”
    “In my Father’s house there are many mansions,” pronounced St Paul from the end of the table.
    “Well, quite,” said Michael. He could feel the Blessed Mother Teresa’s gaze boring into him as she struggled, quill in hand, over the spelling of ‘balkanisation’ for the meeting’s minutes.
    St Peter tapped his heavy keys on the table, quietly but insistently.
    “There are also certain logistical issues with the idea that I’m not going to bother explaining in this arena.”
    “Of course,” said Michael. “I’m sorry, Pius. I’m going to put that one on the back-burner, maybe discuss it again at the next meeting. We were talking about the seraphim’s rota for singing of eternal praises.”
    “Well, I don’t see why that needs changing,” said Gabriel.
    “It’s been fine for the last two thousand years,” said St Peter.
    “Longer,” said Gabriel.
    “But,” said Michael, “the question raised by one of the faithful is whether we need over ten million seraphim whose sole role is the singing of eternal praises to the Throne.”
    “Speaking of the Thwone...” began St Francis.
    “That is a later item on the agenda,” said Michael, cutting across him. “Let’s deal with the issue in hand.”
    “But why are we even having this debate?” said Michael. “Have the seraphim been complaining about their duties?”
    “No. The member of the faithful in question has asked if some of them could be diverted to other activities such as the beleaguered and understaffed Guardian Angel programme.”
    “Ridiculous,” said Gabriel.
    “Logistical issues,” said St Peter for good measure.
    “Who is this member of the faithful?” asked Pius. “Let him come before us to make his case.”
    “That’s exactly what she wants to do.”
    St Paul coughed in surprise.
    “If there is anything women desire to know let them ask their husbands at home,” he growled.
    Michael tried not to roll his eyes as he did every time Paul quoted his own epistles.
    “Who is it?” asked