♪ Beryl Borrows, as I live and breathe.

[Exhales] Do tell me you're en route to a harvest festival with that dreary swag.

Because, at the very least, it would provoke a degree of fellow-feeling in me.

I'm on potato-peeling duty.

There's a rota in the retreat house.

Stop, stop before you completely break my heart.

I come here almost every day.

Sometimes I have an eclair.

And when the fancy takes me, I have a cream split.

You get a cherry on a cream split.

And there's this little burst of flavour when you bite it.

Tell me you've eaten fish and chips in the street too.

In broad daylight.

Twice.

[Laughs] Although sometimes it feels as though it's the things I don't do that tell me more about where I am now or where I might go next.

What don't you do?

I don't pray.

I came here to pray.

Or at least to decide what I ought to be praying for.

But I can't.

And do you know why?

It's not different enough to the convent, Beryl.

And all the snatched patisserie in the world can't disguise the fact that you are still living the same sort of half-life.

Trapped underneath a similar godly bell jar.

And how do you propose I change that?

Come and stay with me.

Geoffrey.

I am still technically a nun.

I can't live with a man.

You could lodge with a kindly confirmed bachelor.