on top of st catherine's hill

A woman walks past me and says snap, only her hat's from Peru, not Bolivia.
I am an offensive charm weapon, talking to strangers, friend and foe alike.
In the mis-maze, I speak to a friend who's hiding in his room, telling me
It's all so dysfunctional and weird. Well, of course. This is Winchester.
At Christmas. What do you expect? They used to send us here before breakfast
No matter the weather, call out our names in Latin, wait for our 'sum'
Then send us back for baked beans on toast. The place is still populated
By too many twits, but it has a family feel. Couples with Thermos flasks of
Tomato soup, kids with bow and arrow, fathers demonstrating sledging
Prowess. All harmless in the end, I try to tell my whispering friend.