It's Sunday and in time-honoured tradition, I considered a day of rest. A day of rest from the blog world, a day of rest from myself to get me in order. I thought about it (ponder, ponder, ponder) and then I realised there is no order any more, perhaps there never was. I can hardly remember what it was like a couple of months ago when you could go out whenever you wanted, have a drink at the pub, fly away on holiday, get as close as you wanted to another customer in the supermarket and not have to worry about anyone killing you (or you them) with their breath.
What great days, eh?
So Sunday, God's day, the holy Sabbath, church and bells and hymns and blessings. I'd go to church and pray, except the churches are all closed and prayer is no substitute for a vaccine. God must have got a flight and fucked off on holiday years ago or retired to a beach somewhere and forgotten what we are paying him in prayers for.
It's all very confusing and if I had a mind to lose I'd lose it all over again. Thankfully I'm as mad as a box of jumping frogs (hot dog and Albuquerque) and God tells me so every morning at my own private service. He always wears shorts and flip-flops, I guess it's his holiday look. I love his Wayfarers and he's got a great tan, but he stinks of rum and suntan lotion and he's always checking his watch (a not very good fake Rolex, probably bought in Egypt). Perhaps he's got a pilates class or a hot date or something. I hear that he's moved on from Mary and got himself a twerking Latino dancer with a massive omnipresent arse.
What's that you say God? 'Surf's up dude'? Cool Godio, thanks for the information, it's about time you said something about something, anything, the conversation is a little one-way if I'm honest.
So okay, I think I'll take a day off and leave blogging for people with something wise and important to say. I might go to the beach, oh I can't it's closed. I wonder if God can get me a pass? He's got to be good for something.
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