Did I ever tell you about the time we had an infestation of tiny nuns in the kitchen?
They were mostly harmless, of course, and didn't make a peep, but we worried about their safety. There were just so many, we were scared we might drop something, or step on them as they wandered leisurely across the floor. Quite apart from the guilt that would cause, we were also concerned that, if there was a God, there would certainly be some sort of retribution.
And we reasoned that if the divine punishment for harming a nun was going to be bad, it would be doubly so for harming a teeny nun.
So we got a specialist in, who relocated them to a nice miniature church in his auntie's garden. They were quite happy. We counted them as they boarded the mini mini buses: ninety nine in all. We waved them goodbye, with tiny handkerchiefs.
Then a few days ago, I heard a rustling. I turned my head and spied, out of the corner of my eye, the hundredth nun, on the tiny shelf by the paprika and my fancy tea. She sat quietly, counting her rosary beads and when she turned her head to look, she smiled at me.