Just Like Home

It was Christmas Day in Bangor and the elderly clergyman was standing by the handsome fire waiting for his four sons to come down to breakfast.
The first son came into the room, adjusting his dog collar.
'Good morning, father,' he said.
'Good morning, my son/ said the clergyman. 'And did you spend a comfortable night?'
'Wonderful, father. I dreamt of heaven, and it was just like home.'
He joined his father by the fire, and both proceeded to toast their nether regions and gaze out through the leaded windows at the flurries of snow. After a few minutes the second son came down, also in his dog collar, and the same conversation took place. Eventually the third son,- also a clergyman, walked through the door, and said much the same thing as the first two.
So all four of them were standing by the fire warming themselves when the door opened and the fourth son walked in wearing his pinstripe suit and spotted tie. A solicitor, he was not only the black sheep of the family, but earned more than the rest of them put together.
'Morning, father,' he said.
'Good morning,' said his father. 'Sleep well?'
'Oh, all right,' said the fourth son. 1 spent most of the night having this dream about hell.'
'Really? What was it like?'
'Just like home. You couldn't get near the fire for the bloody clergy.'