“Have you read this?” George asks tapping his finger on an article in the Times newspaper.
His wife Linda stoops down to look as George angles the paper so she can read it better. She shakes her head.
“Didn't realise you had an interest in halal meat.”
“Hah. You're funny. I don't. I'm just amazed at the jingoistic crap that politicians spout nowadays.”
“Hasn't it always been like that?”
George stops to contemplate the question. Maybe she has a point.
“Yeah probably now you come to mention it. That being said, it is utterly ridiculous. Here's the line that got me. Causing animals unnecessary pain and severe suffering is pure cruelty, and not the British way. I'm sorry but you're trying to raise a point about the way animals are being slaughtered for meat. Whichever way they're killed isn't great for the animal is it? They're dead. End of. What do they think happens if it's not halal? Take a lamb for example, do they lay down next to them, stroke their little noses whilst telling them it'll all be OK, maybe sing them a lullaby for extra reassurance? People really are fucking idiots. Do they think the legs come off like the wings on a roasted chicken? Just pop it in the oven for an hour and give it a little twist and a pull and it comes away free. Fuck me.”
Linda just sighs and walks in the direction of the kitchen. “Cuppa?”
“Oooh yes please love. Thank you.”
Everything in the world seems better with a cup of tea in your hand. His eyes move back down at the paper. He scans the headlines as he flicks through page to page.
A couple of minutes later Linda returns carrying two mugs and hands one over. “There you go.”
He looks up and smiles. “Any chance of…”
Before he can finish his sentence she cuts him off with a stern “NO!”
“Well you can't blame a man for trying.”
Linda pokes a finger into his belly to remind him of why the answer was no to the unanswered question of any chance of a biscuit to go with it?
“Ahhhh good point.” Now it's his turn to sigh.
Linda grabs the paper from his lap and looks at the front page. She points to the strap line in the top right hand corner “The hot bun travesty. Is that because you won't be eating any this Easter?”
Linda proudly chuckles to herself. George puffs out his cheeks before he lets out a prolonged pfft in what he would claim to be faux annoyance if challenged on it, but really and truthfully he's genuinely annoyed as he does like a good toasted hot cross bun with lashings of butter melting on top. His expanding waistline being proof of his admiration for all things calorific.
George waits patiently for the return of his beloved Times and sips his tea. He's long since learned not to moan about Linda stealing his newspaper and that it's a more than fair trade off for a nice hot brew. Linda knows that over the course of the day he'll give her the edited highlights anyway so she doesn't ever have to read it. George is her own daily cliff notes of world events; only her version is delivered in a verbal format.
Linda finishes flicking about half way through, closes the paper up, folds it in half, folds in half again. George moves to quickly put his tea down on the coffee table and get his arse off the sofa and his body out of reach but he's too slow as the paper comes thudding against his backside.
“Oh good now you're up you can cut the grass that you've been promising me that you'll do.”
George rubs his backside, finishes the contents of his tea and goes to fetch his gardening shoes from the hall.
Coming back into the living room he pauses by the door. “Do you ever wonder what life would be like if they'd banned religion centuries ago? Do you think the world would be a better place?”
“Jesus George it's not even 11am. Bit early in the day don't you think for earth shattering questions like that?”
“Yeah maybe,” he replies and walks towards the patio doors.
“I didn't say that I didn't have an opinion dear.”
He turns and looks at her silhouetted by the sun pouring through the patio doors behind him. Linda thinks to herself he'd never have made it past basic training as an angel with a belly like that, his wings wouldn't have carried his weight but she makes a note not to say it out loud and have a chuckle at her second funny joke that morning in quick succession, she's on a roll. Best not to turn up his sensitivity dial when it comes to his weight. More than one dig a day and we're into sulky teenager territory. Mind you weren't cherubs traditionally pot bellied? No leave it Linda.
“I'm all ears.”
“I bet you are. You're thinking it'll get you out of mowing the lawn.”
Damn it. Rumbled with his hand firmly in the cookie jar.
“Well…yes… but I'm still interested. Hit me. Not literally, my backside still stings from where you got me with the paper.”
Now it's his turn to make her chuckle. 15 all which will be 30-15 when she has her private chuckle about the angel wings. Or is that 30 love given she's actually laughing at herself for hitting him with the paper? Doesn't matter. First world problems displayed at their finest.
“It's multilayered. The question would be whether by banning it, did it disappear altogether or did it get pushed underground and maybe forcing it to become more militant? Religion has always been about controlling people. Sooooo without control would everyone have stayed in line or would there have been chaos? Take the catholic church and all their pomp and ceremonies and the trillions they must have taken from people over the years. All that money would have given people a better standard of life. Well … unless some other buggers took it from them which is I guess a real possibility. But you wouldn't have had the fear of god put into you that someone was watching you play with your willy growing up and that it was a sin akin to murdering someone.”
This last bit amuses George immensely as he laughs for some reason with his mouth shut whistling in bursts through his nose.
“How many millions of lives have been lost in the name of the same God? That's the bit that makes the least sense for me. It's not like the Greeks and the Romans with all their deities. Muslims aren't going well we worship I don't know… Pisces and the Christians are going well we worship … Neptune.”
“Is pisces a God, Goddess or a star sign?”
“Oh. Erm. Yeah, maybe a star sign. You get my point though?”
“Yeah, sorry I wasn't trying to be pernickety, I'm actually not sure.”
“No, I think you're right. But anyway. Here's this make believe deity used to control people and take money from them. Don't you think if Jesus did exist he was just a brilliant con artist? Hey everyone I'm the son of God! Oh wow. Really? Yeah really. Did people just believe that? Imagine that now 2025 years later. Say God does exist and puts another son on the planet and he goes to Time Square in New York and says I'm the son of God. How many hours before he's highly sedated in a mental institution dribbling from the corner of one side of his mouth?”
George can remember the words of his late father ringing in his ears about never discussing religion or politics. Too late now father.
“Take the Jews bombing the shit out of Gaza.”
Oh Christ George thinks to himself, it's not like Linda to swear.
“There's this huge chain of events that got us here in the first place. Who should take the blame?”
George stands there silent, not knowing if he's expected to listen at this juncture or offer up a plausible answer or working theory at the very least. He decides silence is the better option. He feels his lips tighten closer together instinctively. Best not to interrupt her when she's in mid flow. Freestyle thinking he likes to call it but no one else has used it as a term. Bit like when he thought he'd invented Clit lit as a term for those saucy books middle aged women seem to love, only to discover someone else had already coined it.
“Israel is created in what? 1948?”
George wants to ask her why she's asking him. How would he know? Does he look like Google? Not that Google would give you an answer anyway, just a series of adverts for shit you don't need or want.
“Typical British causing problems in territories not their own. Partitioning land willy nilly as if it's the only solution. Palestine, Ireland, India. Millions of deaths can be laid at the door of the British. That's a fact. Those are just three examples. So today's problems are indirectly down to their decisions. Is it their fault entirely? I mean they must also sell arms to Israel in the here and now so they're still complicit even now having ceased control over the territory 80 odd years ago. Is it the Nazis fault? Well there's a strong argument there of course because if they hadn't killed several million in the Holocaust we'd not have needed an Israel in the first place.”
George is really starting to wish he was mowing the lawn or he was one of the lambs having his nose stroked with a lullaby sung to him even if death awaits. This is why Linda can complete 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzles and he gives up after the first ten minutes when all he's done is found the four corner pieces and laid them spread out.
If you were to ask George what his original question was he couldn't have told you at this juncture. He'll remember it at some point later. Maybe mid way through mowing the lawn. Maybe just after he'll no doubt have had a thought about saving a lamb and letting it graze in the garden thus saving on him having to mow it. When he finally does remember he'll try to piece his way through all the valid points and get lost again just as he's doing now. Having opinions is far easier when you're reacting to something written in print rather than a synopsis of history delivered by your wife at breakneck speeds with nothing to reference back on later other than your failing memory that isn't what it once was.
Linda realising she's losing her husband changes strategy.
“Do you remember when they used to show the Palestinians reacting to attacks on the TV?”
George thinks for a moment. Then the images come back to him.
“Oh yes, yes I do. You mean the ones where they were burning tyres and kids were using the slingshots whilst the Israeli soldiers were firing guns back at them?”
“Exactly!”
“If they're both persecuted wouldn't it make more sense for them to go let's stick together?”
“You'd think so right?”
“Right.” George nods, his head still silhouetted against the sun. Linda can tell the near desperation in his voice which says I'm sorry I asked, this is a little above my pay grade, can we stop now?
“Right. Well on that note off you toddle dear and mow the lawn. If you're a good boy I'll let you smell my salt and vinegar crisps at lunch.”
“Is that a euphemism dear?”
The answer follows in the form of the Times newspaper thrown at him. It would have been much funnier had she been eating prawn cocktail crisps but he calls it game, set and match in his mind and makes a note to allow himself a hearty laugh whilst he gets on with the task of mowing the lawn. Oh and maybe follow his father's advice next time and just don't ask.
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