I’m not a religious person. I was brought up by a Mother who was [is] religious and thus we attended church each week. Methodist, but not truly Methodist. I was christened in the Methodist church in The Village of my Childhood …
[look, it’s a picture, of me, albeit only ten months old, and don’t we all just adore the brown and blue combination of Mumsy’s formal wear, complete with spiffingly huge collar – now quit whining about the posting of photographs]
… a church which holds some good and some bad memories for me. I argued, swore, screamed and cried in that church. I think that g[G]od, if he exists, gave up on me when I was a child.
But that’s cool, because I gave up on him too.
It was all mutual.
But sometimes I think how nice it would be to still have the child-like faith I had at the age of six, when I told Jesus that I was sorry for all my terrible child-like sins in the place where the sea is radioactive.
Because if I still had that faith I’d be able to pray and ask g[G]od to decide once and for all to push my wisdom tooth up, or keep it where it is … anything to stop that baby-teething pain.
Please pass me the Bonjela and the Nurofen, thank you muchly.
please God bless my wisdom tooth, again xxx Elsabeth