Or at least since the much-missed Father Ted. I confess I suppose that is an appropriate term in this context that despite my extensive exposure to Roman Catholic iconography, I had never known the correct name for the odd statuette in question, that of a toddler Jesus incongruously dressed in sumptuous regal robes with a dirty great crown on his head, not a Pamper in sight.
They then squabble, and what you could see coming transpired β the Infant of Prague is dropped and his head breaks away from his wee body, so it does. Decapitating the Lamb of God is usually not the luckiest thing to do, and so it proves. A literal iconoclasm, I suppose, and superbly, erm, executed. They are discovered by Sister Michael but, in an improbable collaboration, they superglue his head back on, upside down, and pretend nothing untoward happened.
As say it is all a bit predictable, but charming and very funny nonetheless. Baby Jesus was to be returned when Ms De Brun was reinstated. Ms De Brun takes an inspirational approach to literature reminiscent of Robin Williams in Dead Poets Society, but with added smouldering sex appeal from the moment she turns up in her motorcycle leathers and smoky eye shadow, and tosses her luscious locks around the staid old panelled corridors.
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