The Priory of Finchelsea VII.

The wind whirled around the huge and lowring structure of the Cathedral. Next door was the Bishop's House.
Bishop Smith stood in the doorway, holding his geen and yellow cassock around himself. This was a very important meeting, and he was afraid he would make a very bad impression, especially if he didn't wipe the drip off the end of his nose.
The door was opened by a short priest in a patched black cassock. Bishop Smith stepped inside.
"Is Bishop Calvin in?" he asked. Bishop Calvin was popularly regarded as the most unfortunately-named prelate in the whole church.
"I'm Bishop Calvin," the shabby priest replied testily. "Due to the rising cost of sex scandals in the diocese I can no longer afford either to employ a housekeeper or maintain a cassock fund."
Strike one, Bishop Smith thought.
"I'm sorry, Bishop Calvin."
"Not half as sorry as I am. The boys at the mall make fun of my cassock. And the clergy at the mall make fun of my name."
"Bishop..."
"Of course. Come with me."
Bishop Calvin led him up the stairs to his freezing cold office.
"We can't afford fuel bills either."
"What is the word from Rome?" Bishop Smith asked, impatient.
"The word is Bananas. The Bishop who can make the largest number of words from it wins a Cardinal's hat."
"Not that word. The other one."
"Sorry. Well, Bishop Smith, you're treading on eggshells."
"I know. It's a penance."
"I mean that the situation is bad. The Pope thinks that your Order is a very bad idea. You have this one chance."
"I'm not going to bungle it," Bishop Smith answered. He hoped that the Teacher and Barsabbas had the matter well in hand.