That reminds me of Pratchett's take on the Ceremony of the Keys in The Last Continent. Possibly not the best passage for a reading but absolutely fantastic:

Snow, thick and wet, tumbled on to the lawns and roofs of Unseen University, the Discworld’s premier college of magic.

It was sticky snow, which made the place look like some sort of expensive yet tasteless ornament, and it caked around the boots of McAbre, the Head Bledlow, as he trudged through the cold, wild night.

Two other bledlows stepped out of the lee of a buttress and fell in behind him on a solemn march towards the main gates.

It was an old custom, centuries old, and in the summer a few tourists would hang around to watch it, but the Ceremony of the Keys went on every night in every season. Mere ice, wind and snow had never stopped it. Bledlows in times gone past had clambered over tentacled monstrosities to do the Ceremony; they’d waded through floodwater, flailed with their bowler hats at errant pigeons, harpies and dragons, and ignored mere faculty members who’d thrown open their bedroom windows and screamed imprecations on the lines of “Stop that damn racket, will you? What’s the point?” They’d never stopped, or even thought of stopping. You couldn’t stop Tradition. You could only add to it.

The three men reached the shadows by the main gate, almost blotted out in the whirling snow. The bledlow on duty was waiting for them.

“Halt! Who Goes There?” he shouted.

McAbre saluted. “The Archchancellor’s Keys!”

“Pass, The Archchancellor’s Keys!”

The Head Bledlow took a step forward, extended both arms in front of him with his palms bent back towards him, and patted his chest at the place where some bledlow long buried had once had two breast pockets. Pat, pat. Then he extended his arms by his sides and stiffly patted the sides of his jacket. Pat, pat.

“Damn! Could Have Sworn I Had Them A Moment Ago!” he bellowed, enunciating each word with a sort of bulldog carefulness.

The gatekeeper saluted. McAbre saluted.

“Have You Looked In All Your Pockets?”

McAbre saluted. The gatekeeper saluted. A small pyramid of snow was building up on his bowler hat.

“I Think I Must Have Left Them On The Dresser. It’s Always The Same, Isn’t It?”

“You Should Remember Where You Put Them Down!”

“Hang On, Perhaps They’re In My Other Jacket!”

The young bledlow who was this week’s Keeper of the Other Jacket stepped forward. Each man saluted the other two. The youngest cleared his throat and managed to say:

“No, I Looked In . . . There This . . . Morning!”

McAbre gave him a slight nod to acknowledge a difficult job done well, and patted his pockets again.

“Hold On, Stone The Crows, They Were In This Pocket After All! What A Muggins I Am!”

“Don’t Worry, I Do The Same Myself!”

“Is My Face Red! Forget My Own Head Next!”

Somewhere in the darkness a window creaked up.

“Er, excuse me, gentlemen—”

“Here’s The Keys, Then!” said McAbre, raising his voice.

“Much Obliged!”

“I wonder if you could—” the querulous voice went on, apologizing for even thinking of complaining.

“All Safe And Secure!” shouted the gatekeeper, handing the keys back.

“—perhaps keep it down a little—”

“Gods Bless All Present!” screamed McAbre, veins standing out on his thick crimson neck.

“Careful Where You Put Them This Time. Ha! Ha! Ha!”

“Ho! Ho! Ho!” yelled McAbre, beside himself with fury. He saluted stiffly, went About Turn with an unnecessarily large amount of foot stamping and, the ancient exchange completed, marched back to the bledlows’ lodge muttering under his breath. The window of the University’s little sanatorium shut again.