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10 years ago
The family gathered in the lounge to watch
the weather forecast. It was a big event these days and people tended to
arrange their commitments around it, often serving Turkish delight, sherry and
brandy snaps, that sort of thing. The latest HD, digital, wide screen, slimline
TV took longer to warm up than their old valve driven Bush model, but this
didn’t prevent a rising tide of euphoria filling the room.
“It’s
starting love!” cried Dad.
“I’ll
be there in a minute” replied Mum.
“Hey!
There’s supposed to be two presenters tonight” said young Ben.
“Two?
What the hell for?”
“Well,
it’s like reading the news and presenting children’s telly. The job’s too hard
for just one person and what with all the spare money we’ve all got these days
the bosses thought it best.”
“Right”.
“Whoopie!”
yelled young Betty.
“Quiet
in the cheap seats” growled Grandpa, in his corner.
“Ladies and Gentlemen-n-n-n-n-n-n-n. We now
come to the highlight of the evening, a super-middleweight forecast for the
United Kingdom-m-m-m-m-m-m. Introducing in the blue corner, with five correct
predictions out of one hundred attempts – William... Wet and Windy...
Wallis-s-s-s-s-s-s.
“Hooray!
Hooray!”
“Poor
bloke’s got a speech impediment” said Grandpa
“Shush
Grandpa!”
“Hooray!
Hooray!”
“That
bloke’s got a fat arse” said Grandpa.
“You
need your glasses changing” observed Mum.
“Aye. Yes
please, another Brown Ale would go down very nicely, thanks”.
“I
remember these two newsreaders. It’s Mork and Mindy isn’t it?”
“Be
quiet Grandpa”.
“Or is
it Dork and Windy?”
“Shut
up!”
“Laurel
and …..”
“Ha, ha, ha, ha. You are a wit William."
“Tee hee hee hee hee. But not as funny as
you Jasmine."
"You were so good on ‘Strictly’ Micky."
“I’m such a liberal too”.
“I love you”.
“I love me”.
“We love everybody (as long as somebody else
is paying for it)”
A tall man in white flannels then came in
with some orange juice and bananas on a tray and the forecast fiasco took a
commercial break.
* * *
By the following morning the commercial
break had just about finished and it was time for the family to climb out of
their sleeping bags and see what the weather had in store for them. It was a well
established meteorological practice by this time to actually wait for the
weather to actually occur before predicting it – the cutting
edge conclusion of a three and a half million pound computer technology
investment programme, begun in 2011.
“For those of you interested in the indoor
snooker tournament in Hong Kong we have bravely flown out to give you the most
accurate information possible” said Jasmine in her new sequinned bikini. This
will be followed by further self-sacrificial flights around the world to ensure
we meet our broadcasting obligations to you - the paying public. We will pause
only to pick up twenty odd well known but declining TV celebrities who are
currently in need of well deserved free holidays... er... I mean who are
currently filming travelogues.”
“Oh
for the love of God, what’s the weather going to be like?” said Grandpa,
wafting away the overnight fart gas from his trousers.
“Stop
distracting us Grandpa” said young Betty.
“Upper Nether Thornton in Wessex had the
most rainfall over a ten minute period since records began last month”
announced William.
“Lower Nether Thornton had more wind from a
North by North-West direction since the Middle Ages” trumped Jasmine.
“I’m making a record with Simon Cowell” gloated William.
Then came the viewers’ photographs section,
including a wonderful outdoor shot of the South Downs in the cold depths of Winter.
“But it’s only the beginning of August,
William” said Jasmine.
“I know, but my house is on this one”
replied William
“They’ve
obviously moved it down to London” advised Mum.
“Oh. I
was quite enjoying that storyline about the ethnic, dyslexic, gay lovers who’d
just had a car crash.”
“They're
getting married in hospital with matching duvets”.
“Touching”.
“Yes,
there will be plenty of that, no doubt”.
“Well, as for the much awaited UK forecast,
viewers who really want to know, can get an update on my new awesome blog……..”
The presenters then joined hands in a
recreation of the famous Tiller Girls Palladium routine and the station went on
to its default setting.... The... Simp... sons.
Totally
pissed off with the ever declining standards of modern television, Grandpa went
into the kitchen and practised drawing a sharp carving knife across his throat.
It wouldn’t be long now, he thought. “Good bye cruel world, and good riddance!”
And I can’t say I blame him really.
An Irish preacher who had made his name in
the village in which he lived, would make his rounds every month, walking from
house to house, in order to “keep the faith,” so to speak. He’d do so
by letting the prospective families know about the functions that the
church would be having in the coming weeks, as well as reminding them
that every little bit helped when it came to financing the church.
Every month when the preacher made his
rounds, he would often venture down a road that he had not walked before, out
of sheer curiosity and the hope of finding another parishioner to the church’s
falling congregation. One month, he made his way down a road that led
straight to a pond which many people fished at during the spring and summer
months. The house in question was found up a hill overlooking a
pond.
The preacher made his way up the hill and
without any inhibitions at all, he knocked on the door to the house. It
was the middle of the afternoon on a Saturday, so he thought someone might be
home. A woman came to the door.
“Can I help you?” she asked politely
smiling.
“Possibly. I’m Pastor Mickerick, Ma’am, I
preach down at the old Candleton Church there on Yarder’s Road. You may have
heard of us.”
“Sure, sure.”
“Well, Ma’am, if I’m not interrupting
anything, I’d like to take a moment of your time, if that is alright, to talk
to you about God.”
“God? Well, now, Pastor Mickerick, I
was kind of in the middle of something. I have been working on a story for
a few hours now. I’m in the creative mode, if you can understand my
meaning.”
“Writing?”
“Yes, Pastor.”
“Wow, I’ve never met a writer before.”
“Yes, well, now you have, Pastor. And,
I must really get back to it.”
“Ma’am, I do understand that you have your
writing to tend to, but I must ask you, is it more important than gaining the
chance of eternal salvation?”
“Well, I suppose it is, as I’m not really
that interested in eternal salvation, Pastor, no offense.”
“Well Ma’am, certainly for the sake of your
children, I would like to come in and speak with you if for only a moment about
our Lord Jesus Christ, if that is alright. I do think that it will be well
worth your while.”
Seeing that she is not going to be able to
get rid of him without being rude the woman replied, “Well, I suppose that
I can take a five minute break and have a glass of orange juice. Would
you like one?”
“Well, certainly Ma’am, I would love one.” the
pastor replied smiling as if with a new sense of accomplishment.
Pastor Mickerick follows the woman who came
to the door inside her house, and promptly sits down at a small table in the
kitchen, after she quickly pushes some of the things that were covering the
side where he sat out of the way.
While getting the juice from the fridge and
a couple of glasses from the cupboard, the woman calmly stated “You’ll have to
excuse me for not being one of those women that asks a visitor to forgive the
mess that they see upon entering their house. I am quite fine with my
mess, actually, and Portia is as well.”
“Portia? Is she your daughter? I’m
sorry, by the way, I didn’t get your name either.”
The woman turns from pouring the glasses of
juice, smiling and sits down across from the preacher after returning the
orange juice carton to the fridge.
“Well, Pastor, that is because I didn’t give
it to you yet. But if you must know, my name is Paige, Paige Turner, and Portia
is not my daughter, she is my lover.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, according to you churchies, we must be
living in all types of sin here.”
“Yes, well, maybe we can change that. I
make my rounds every month in order to spread the word of God and to inform the
neighbours of Candleton Church as to what is happening as far as functions go,
as they can be fun for the family...”
“What did you really come here for,
Pastor? Did you come to save my soul? Did you come to tell me all
about Jesus Christ, as if I haven’t heard enough bullshit about that character
in my short torrid life already? Hmmm? Please get to it, as the
bottom of my juice glass is becoming clearer, and when I am done, you know, I
really must get back to my writing.” Paige said cutting him off.
“Well, I suppose that I came here
originally, as I always do, to spread the word.”
“Pastor, I’m a writer, I come across plenty
of words already. And believe me, the ones that you hold have no more or
less meaning to me than any of the others.”
“I understand that now. Look, I hardly
thought that in meandering up here I would stumble across a woman writer who is
living in sin. You illuminate a different world for me, quite honestly.”
“A different world? Hmmm. Pastor,
how can I be ‘living in sin,’ as you say, if I don’t actually believe in the
concept?”
Taking a big swig of orange juice, Pastor Mickerick
turned to the woman. “Can I be frank with you, Paige?”
“Just make it quick.”
“Well, for one, I don’t have any answers for
you. The fact is, I don’t believe the concepts myself anymore, these
doctrines that I am supposed to bash people over the head with purely because I
wear this collar.” Still using his best techniques of reverse psychology, the
preacher then tears off his white collar and squashes it in his hand hoping Paige
would take the bait and try reconverting him.
“Really? Well, good for you,
Pastor! Look, I would really love to be part of your whole ‘losing of your
faith’ thing, but you see, I work here at home, and while Portia is out, I
really get my crunch time in, so if you don’t mind...”
The preacher gets the hint, realizing that Paige
is not interested in the slightest, and he excuses himself from the house after
thanking her for the orange juice. Paige simply locks the door behind him.
“God, spreading the word was getting harder
and harder,” the Pastor thought to himself as he made his way back down the
hill. “There’s got to be an easier way to do this.” He then smiled to himself
over the irony of God giving a writer a name like Paige Turner. There had to be
something to this religion stuff after all.
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