After spending an evening on cheap entertainment, gluttony in a devil-themed restaurant, and gambling for a bottle of wine, we thought we shouldn't skip church. After the play, in the rain, of course, we wandered the dark streets toward the spires of St. Mary's. I'm glad the service times for the next morning were posted on the gate, because there was no way I was going past that graveyard in the dark. The Anglican service was homey and friendly, in an ancient building. Prayers were offered for foot-and-mouth disease in this sheep-raising area, and the children had drawn pictures that were hanging in the back: sheep lying on their backs with their eyes crossed out; sheep piled in a big heap and being torched by tanks with blow torches (by a boy, I think); a farmer standing in front of his burning sheep and -- of course, this is how we're taught to draw -- smiling. For the curious, English church juice is even worse than American. I know it's hard to believe. We tasted it and went, "Ew." And then I noticed that on the gallon jug it read, "Dilute with water." Ah-ha, we said, and poured in water from the pitcher provided. Steve tasted it again, made a face, and said, "It's still terrible, and now I have three times as much."
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