The Wabbit was out for a constitutional hop in EUR. He wondered why it was called constitutional. "I suppose it's good for the health," thought the Wabbit. He scampered down the steps at the side glancing back to look at the dome. St Peter and St Paul aren't in," he mused to himself. "Package from Amazon," he intoned in Latin. He snickered. A voice from the heavens boomed out. "Leave it with the Most Holy Concierge." The Wabbit was amused, but he looked back, then thought perhaps he should go inside. He retraced his steps and hopped to the door. It was big - but it was closed. The Wabbit leaned against it. Nothing. He gave it a surreptitious kick. Nothing. Then he realised that the door opened the other way. Feeling foolish, he pulled and went through. The Basilica was light and airy. He looked up to the massive dome. Golden light flooded down. He looked all round. Chapels on the right and chapels on the left. Chapels everywhere. The Wabbit sat down on a handy pew to take the weight off his feet. He thought about a prayer, but he wasn't in the habit of praying. He got up to light a candle and fished in his fur for a lighter. But the only lighter he had with him bore the inscription, "Flanagan's Pub, Cork. Where drinking problems continue." He shrugged - and flicked it into life. Then he lit a candle and sat back ...
