Dr Rowan Williams, the Archbishop of Canterburyís massive ornate eyebrows precede him. Blindly they sweep through the air filtering out particles of theocratic detritus and funneling these morsels of God plankton into the mind of Britain's most eminent clergyman. They stand alert as antennae, constantly twitching faster than the human eye can register, searching for resonance, then audibly humming as they sing like the reed of a piccolo with the mysterious song of the creator. They rise and arch, undulating with the knowledge bestowed upon them. As the wave of a magician's wand precedes a trick, so the flourish of the Bishopís brow proceeds a doctrinal proclamation. But unlike the magicianís blunt stick the Bishopís brow is sharp, like a cheese wire brush. Sharp enough to slice a schism in the very fabric of the Church. Godís horns are not the horns of the goat, but the feathered horns of the wise owl. If the bishop were to ram you, these horns would tickle, not penetrate. They are not worn on the top of the head, like the owls, but on the face sitting either side of the mindís chakra, pointing the wearer forwards. They are not designed for violence, but guidance, like the whiskers of a cat. They are a spiritual sixth sense bestowed upon only the most divine of men.