I don’t know what the money lenders were up to in the temple that got Him so irate, apart from lending money which has become humanity’s most important activity in the post biblical world. He might have been wiser to have had a quiet word with the money lenders, sent them to work in the City and installed an ATM in the Temple. Temples are on my mind as I haven’t been treating my body as one for several days now. There are no money lenders in my temple and if there were I wouldn’t be driving them out, I’d be begging for a piece of the action. That which is in my temple is not fiscal, it is vinous. Instead of money lenders there are rows of grape tramplers determined to sink the temple under a tsunami of Cotes de Rhone. My synapses were awash with fermented grape juice and the grape tramplers had to be driven out. The WMD that I chose to end their tyrannical reign was leek and potato soup together with nil by mouth, or nil from the mouth of a wine bottle. I can’t see this as a long lasting discipline but my synapses seem to be megaflopping, if that’s what they do, at a rate that allows me to string more than two words together without getting dizzy from the effort. With the weekend looming, I fear the grape tramplers may well be lurking just outside the temple door.