Mum has been seemingly transfixed by Chip’s appearance.

Mum has been seemingly transfixed by Chip’s appearance. I guess there’s something about a huge man in a Hugo Boss uniform with the lightning flashes, the gold braid, and the neat short hair. My hair this morning is somewhat unruly, of the ruffled grouse variety. Anyway, Chip looks up from Mum’s laptop and fixes me with his piercing blue eye like he’s the Ancient Mariner or something.
“Do you pray to Saint Paraskevi of Rome?” says Mum.
There is a silence. Chip is baffled.
“You really should!”
“Mum he’s not blind!”
“Lucy of Syracuse. Do you ever pray to her?”
“No, but we played Syracuse once,” says Chip, trying to humor the Madwoman.
“Maybe he should consider Saint Leodegar.”
“That’s more like sore eyes.”
“Have it your way. I’m thinking Saint Harvey or Saint Hemma of Gurk.”
“No son. That’s eye disease. So Saint Cynacus wouldn’t help either. This is something different.”
“What about Saint Augustine of Hippo?”
“Again just soreness. This is something much worse. Tell me how…?”
“Someone butted out a cigarette in my eye,” says the Commandant
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