Last night the husband and I attended a table quiz, a fundraiser for the main street entertainment on Show Day. Des and the parish priest completed our team. Des, the most religious man I know, practically glowed when he saw Father G: "We have the Lord on our side!" Father G responded, "Oh, God bless us!" He named the team "The Holy Show", which is Irish slang for “spectacle”, e.g. "You made a holy show of yourself."

Due to rampant cheating at the last table quiz, every team had to keep their mobile phones in a lunchbox on their table. The emcee sped through the first four rounds because the quiz was running late and a disco was scheduled for 11 pm. There was a break for the raffle: the prizes were bottles of vodka, boxed chocolates, and deflated footballs. At first our team was ahead by one point, and then tied, only to lose by two points. Father G was indignant and refused to congratulate the winners: "They had a lot of people on their team!"

Of course the husband had to mischievously bring up my atheism. Only by now Father G and I were at ease with each other (all that liquor helped, I suppose), so while the husband and Des went out to smoke, we chatted about the vagaries of faith. Then the lounge darkened and strobe lights flashed and farmers' wives in white skinny jeans and espadrille sandals swarmed the dance floor: the disco had started.

I noticed Father G's hands thumping on the table in time with the beat. "Would you like to dance, Father?" "I would, but I can’t, not here." Oof. Anyways I got up and danced on my own, making a holy show of myself. Father G said to the husband, "She's a good dancer. You'll have to bring her to mass." Snort. It’s all ABBA. ABBA makes anyone look like a good dancer.

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