Jacket Potatoes Scarcely had he entered the vestry to disrobe in exchange for the anorak he wore religiously in this inveterate cold, when the sleet that steamed against the green crucifix stained in the window became cynosure. It is a temptation to conspire when we notice his eyes, at this point, are bluer and purer than prior in the doxology, where trenches of parishioners once sat and an almost audible sigh given up; to imagine a particular euphoria inside. Generally, speculation is a better ministry to obey but the strange restraint borne in the cut of his arms folded aft…