Saturday, 16 December 2017

Don't Knock It (My Door, That Is)

Knocks on the door on a Sunday morning are generally not a portent of good things.  They're not necessarily bad things, more like things you don't really need.  Most knocks on the door are from neighbourhood kids asking if you've seen their dog. Usually, when I get a knock on a Sunday morning, I answer the door to be greeted by two men in short-sleeved white shirts and black skinny ties, and black trousers.  They usually have very conservative haircuts, no visible piercings, and are holding tracts.  They ask me am I familiar with the Word of the Lord.  Depending upon my mood,  I will reply, 'Are you familiar with the word 'I'mNotInterested'?'', or else I will reply in more polite terms that I am familiar with teachings of a Common Era Jewish carpenter-turned-teacher, but I have no interest in what they are hawking. I swear to myself that if I see the God Squad coming through my gate again, I will liberally soak myself in tomato sauce and answer the door and gasp in agitated tones, 'Quick!  I need you to help me get rid of the body!'

There was a knock at my door this morning, this morning being a very warm Sunday.  I was asleep. My 16yo answered.  Being a Sunday morning, you might be forgiven in thinking there were people spreading the Word of the Lord.

But this morning was different.  Mostly, the God Squad knock-or-tap-or-ring at a reasonable hour, like after ten (which is when many who DO care about the Word are actually sitting in a stone steeple-topped building wherein a sky pilot blathers from beyond the pulpit, so they're not even home).  This was at 6.15am.  What my son opened the door to was not a pious bible-basher in a neatly pressed shirt, but someone whom I suspect might be on crack wanting to know did my puzzled, blinking 16yo have a light.

To the imbecilic and thoughtless cow who decided knocking on my door at that ungodly hour was a good idea: if your drug-induced delirium has subsided, and you are not yet hanging out for your next hit so you can actually concentrate on this, did you seriously think knocking on the door of some random at 6.15am on a Sunday a clever thing to do? I will explain this in simple, monosyllabic terms: It Is Not.  If it happens again, I will have no compunction about releasing the hounds.  The hounds comprise a fat, lazy sook that would lick you to death, and a cantankerous mini-foxy, but that mini-foxy has quite a lot of spirit when roused.

People who knock at 6.15am seeking a light for their smoke, which was probably some butt she scavenged from the gutter, really are the skidmarks in Satan's underwear.

Well, I'm preparing another lesson for a kid I'm to tutor tomorrow.  Once we've gone through some comprehension, I might get him to read a poem by William Blake.  It is so wonderful to have the opportunity to introduce poetry from the Romantics to a young, pliant mind.  In case you're wondering, my favourite poets are Blake and Keats.  It is a nice diversion from what has been a horrific time, and it is only DAY TWO of the school holidays.  My kids have taken to gaslighting each other by, via remote control, turning off the portable fan the other is using.  Grrrrrrr! There ensued a scene that I just did not need: 'Give it to Mum. Pass it here!  Give it to me NOW, I said! Give me that remote!', all emphasised by excited and infuriated barking from the mini foxy, who gets worked up at any type of loud conflict.

Ciao for now.

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