Sunday morning is a special day for me as a devout catholic. I always go to church when I don't have a hangover - rarely actually.
This morning, the religious fly made another appearance. I think it is a reincarnated nun from the convent I went to as a child. It lies dormant during the week behind the curtains, languishing in the purgatory of the cobwebs. But on a Sunday, without fail, at dawn, before my monsters wake me up, it starts off with a slow, meticulous, reticent buzz from corner to corner to corner to corner of the window, stopping to put on its tunic, its habit, its crucifix and its rosary beads.
Suddenly the mother f, I mean mother superior, blasts out from behind the curtains, ready to rouse the entire nunnery, in full buzzing frenzy.
20 Buzzy Hail Marys and 20 Buzzy Our Fathers later, whilst swooshing down low, almost close enough to alert my nasal hairs to her impending landing, my clerical alarm clock which has been saying, "Go to churchhhh sinner, go to churchhhhhhhhhhhhhhh sinner," secretes herself for a little while to prepare the communion wine.
The only Mary I am interested in right now is a Bloody Mary to ease my pulsating hangover. Staggering around the room blindly, contact lenses not yet aroused, I lurch at the curtains with a book, trying to find the shrouded fly, mumbling obscenities which would have resulted in a lengthy stay in the nun's punishment cupboard if I had dared to utter them in the convent. I want to splat that holy mother out of existence. "Bugger off!" I bellow.
Returning to bed, I contemplate what I would say if I went to confession in this day and age.
"Please bless me father for I have sinned. It is almost seven years since I last bit a Hare Krishna on the arse and considerably longer since my last confession.
I have been swearing profusely for many years and I lost my rosary beads the night my bra also mysteriously disappeared. Please don't ask me why I took the holy necklace out drinking. I think it was part of my fancy dress costume but my memory evades me right now.
Although I have not committed murder, (unless the mouse that the cat caught in the middle of the night and I bludgeoned to death with the new toilet plunger and threw out the window counts) I have contemplated the assassination of the little bastard yapping dog next door on many occasions.
Certainly I did not covet my neighbor's ox as he does not have one, nor his ass for that matter. I did, however, have my eye on the potential new neighbor's bottom as he perused the property with a view to buying it. His jeans clung just perfectly to make him look tasty from the rear. I did fall off the fence trying to conduct a survey of the front of his pants though and swore loudly enough to get his attention. But, by that point, I was lying on the ground on our side of the fence, so luckily he could not see me coveting. Rumor has it that he is the new head of Henry's school, so I am glad he did not see me recumbent in the thistles, although he may well recognize my accent when he hears it again.
As for remembering the Sabbath day, and keeping it holy, the next incident might not hold me in such good stead to enter through the pearly gates either.
The buzzing sister of no mercy had taken a pew at the back of the bedroom and was evading death by a whisker, and believe me, most of the nuns in the convent I went to had more whiskers and facial hair than your average woolly mammoth.
So frustrated and unable to go back to sleep was I, that I took a long contemplative shower (the sort that important authors take before writing a thrilling piece on the life cycle of pubic hair.)
Emerging naked and dripping, because our housemaid (that would be me) had forgotten to put any towels in the bathroom, I heard Jimmy up on the deck talking to somebody that was obviously not one of our kids.
"I have asked you politely to leave twice. Now I am telling you to please bugger off and don't come bothering us again on a Sunday morning. I am an atheist and wish to remain that way."
I thought that the fly had resurfaced after some relaxing rosary time but heard other male voices and called upstairs to ask Jimmy who he was talking to.
"Bloody Jehovah's Witnesses."
"Oooh, are they still here?" I squealed in anticipation.
I flung open the front door, still stark naked, and rushed out into the driveway, scene of their retreat. I jumped up and down in front of them, my not so small appendages jiggling in euphoria. They had not flashed men of the cloth for several years now.
One of the zealots had already hopped into his shit brown Lada replica and was reversing at some speed. The other buffoon, who had the demeanor of a pair of holey, graying underwear, but without the fortune to get as close to anybody else's genitalia, was so intimidated that he stumbled towards the rapidly moving vehicle and got the dangling piece of sock at the end of one of his Jesus sandals run over. He tripped and grabbed at the rusty door handle with all of his holy muscle. Leaping into the car with adrenaline dripping down the collar of his off-grey shirt, he almost smothered the driving ecclesiastic and caused him to reverse into and flatten a poorly tended flower bed of towering weeds.
Henry shouted out urgently, "He's dropped his library book."
Emily added, "The car has runned it over. That grumpy librarian will fine him cos the pages are all flying out."
"Oh, I am sure he will be back next Sunday to collect his leather bound bible. He will probably bring a whole bus full of happy clappers and disciples then, " snorted Jimmy with uncontrollable glee as most of his cup of tea exited through his nostrils.