Several years ago I viewed a short film on Becket's martyrdom; it was
available for viewing at a museum in Canterbury, but not connected to
the cathedral itself. In the scene in which the local women lay out
Becket's body for burial, they discover the hair underwear. Fleas
emerge from the fabric, walk to the edge of the table, sprout tiny wings
and haloes and flutter off like so many tiny angels. There wasn't a dry
eye in the room -- some tears from the pious women watching, others from
those of us who were convulsed with attempts not to laugh.
Carolyn Schriber
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