The lonely lament of the White Van Man

So, I'm sitting on the grass, in a park, enjoying the sun, when I hear
the lilting lament of my neighbour/

I'll call him White Van Man - I have no idea what he drives, although
I can guarantee that he does drive, and that he is "not a man to
tangle with"

He was 50 odd, and seemed to have been angry for most of that half
century.

Anyway, as the parakeets sang overhead, as children splashed in the
shallows, as lovers curled together in knots of content, WVM head
forth to his companion on the evils of Direct Debits. For 45
minutes. Non stop.

He had only two complaints - that he liked to pay what he owed, when
he owed it, and that the didn't like giving access to his account to
strangers - and he performed infinite variations on this his outrage.
For 45 minutes. A virtuoso performance, by any standard.

Meanwhile his companion, a comely lady with a patient sigh, laid out
the picnic, poured tea from a thermos, shifted as the shade of the
tree moved across the grass, and sighed, sympathetically when a
response was required of her.

Then - suddenly - the evil of direct debit was forgotten. Two tiny
figures had caught WVM's attention, two diminutive ladies, in ankle
length black dresses and shady white head dresses walked past, eating
ice-creams.

Here was a subject dear to WVM's heart - "what are they doing here", he spluttered, "in a English park, in England, all covered up like that. This was a Christian country,
after all - do they think they are ..."

His companion screwed the top back on the Thermos. "They're Nuns, dear"

"What?"

"I said - they're Nuns."

"But, what - " WVM spluttered, the natural flow of his spleen
disturbed, "what? Why are they here?"

"It's a convent, dear."

And she stood up, popped the rubbish in the nearest bin, and left.