Forgive me Father for I have sinned. I don’t actually believe in God so I’ve never made confession before; we may be some time. Could you perhaps put the kettle on? I’ve brought some Hob Nobs.
Ah, God. Hello. Ellie here. It’s confession time! Mind if I call you God? Shall we think of something else; something I can more easily connect with; what about Jono? That’s friendly enough, isn’t it. No? Righto. God then. Let’s stick to what you know.
I’ve been looking at your sin list, God, and, to tell you the truth – I should I guess – I’m ticking all your boxes. Shall we take it from the top?
I’ve got shitloads of wrath, God. Shit. Loads. I’ve got wrath coming out of my ears. It starts in the morning during the commute and develops throughout the day. I try, God, I really do, to neutralise the fury within. I repeat to myself: don’t hate other commuters, don’t hate other commuters, don’t hate other commuters. And then I have to get on a crowded train, rest my face in someone’s armpit and muffle the whimper as someone elbows me in the throat. It’s about then that I feel the wrath beginning to grow. You see God, the emphasis is on ‘rush’ and not on ‘hour’ but I really don’t think anyone knows this: they meander through the stations like they haven’t got jobs to get to. Seriously. And then there are the tourists: I swear they would try the patience of a saint. In fact, if you have any spare saints you ought to send one down here and see how long they last. Go on. Saint Christopher. That would be apt. See how he fares.
I have to admit that my wrath is not restricted to the commute either. It’s often aimed at some of the worst people tramping across the planet. You know, the Mugabes or the Melanie Phillips or the Nick Griffins of the world, but this is my confession, not their’s. I trust they are in the queue.
Greed. Yeah, I’ve got that. Do you KNOW what lunch hour is like for a woman working in central London these days? TORMENT. Torment is what it’s like. I’ve identified something in the region of £27,000 of clothes, shoes and accessories that I need for this season alone. I won’t buy them, of course, I won’t buy them God because I do not have the purchasing power. In fact, does this still count, then? Is coveting still bad? I suppose it’s still bad isn’t it. You drive a HARD bargain, God. Like Bond St.
Wowsers, God: I just looked sloth up and it’s not just being a lazy bugger, is it. No. It’s much more complicated than that. Although I can be a lazy bugger, it’s true.
Sloth is defined as spiritual or emotional apathy, neglecting what God has spoken, and being physically and emotionally inactive.
Well, I think we can both agree that I haven’t been all ears where you’re concerned but, God, on that point I must make it clear that I am fairly sure you n’existes pas. So, obvious and current existential crisis aside, it would be a bit freaking hard to listen to anything you had to say. However, physically inactive, there you have me. I DO like to get out, you know, I do like to run really hard, feel my muscles ache and my lungs burn. That’s really great; an aswesome feeling. However equally, and whenever I can, I like to sit on my sofa in baggy clothes eating peas and gravy from a bowl with a spoon and watching the sort of telly I don’t really like to admit to watching – like Ugly Betty. Yeah.
Also, I like to sleep in really late. I mean REALLY late. And I object to fucknuts telling me to get up and seize the day; people who say that clearly went to bed at nine and couldn’t seize something if it smacked them in the face. In fact, could you have a word? You’ll prevent a bit more wrath – prevention is better than cure, God, haven’t you always said? No? Righto.
Um. Well Yeah. Yeah, I can be proud. But I think you should cut me a little slack here; often I’m proud of the people I care about – my family, my friends for all their many and wonderful successes. I think this has gotta be a tick in my box, no? No. Jesus. God you are a HARD.CORE.
Yes. Lust. Fuckloads of lust here. The way I see it, God, if sex weren’t so fantastic, we humans wouldn’t think it was so brilliant. So this one is back in your court. As long as it’s brilliant, we’re going to want plenty. That is how it plays.
Envy is a terrible thing isn’t it. I know it. And I’m guilty of it. I’m envious of my friends when they have babies, I’m envious when their lives work out in ways I had hoped mine would, I’m envious when people have the confidence to push themselves forward or apply themselves in ways I find really challenging. I’m envious of people who can keep their brains on one thing at a time, I’m envious of tall women, I’m envious of people who know what they’re doing with their lives – or seem to… Don’t get me wrong, I’m not pretending when I feel happy for them it’s just that when the moment passes and I am left to contemplate, sometimes it pinches me and I think: I wish I were… better.
I’ve finished the Hob Nobs. Sorry.