In a prior century a weary traveler plodded through the night along a lonely English country road. Presently he came upon an inn, nestled amongst a stand of chestnut trees. The sign above the door read “St. George and the Dragon.” The traveler knew it was late, and the inn was surely closed, but he knocked at the door nonetheless.
Shortly a window above sprang open and the frizzled head of a surly matron thrust forth. Her voice enriched the night air. “What do you mean knocking me up at this ungodly hour, you scummy pig? Get thee to the farthest reached of Hell.” And the window shutters slammed shut.
The weary traveler was abject and crestfallen. Perplexed, he determined to persevere. Once again he knocked upon the inn’s door, and he stood back to observe the window above. Again it opened with a banging of shutters against the cold stones.
“So, you persist, Mr. shit head. What do you want?”
The traveler looked up at the awful face and he pleaded. “Please, madam, could I speak to St. George?”