As I heard the sweet voice booming out like the horn of an angry Italian motor scooter I fell to my knees and cried, “Lord I am not worthy of these sights and sounds or the rather unusual smell that I'm getting a bit of a hint of. Yes I'm not worthy to bathe in this strangely eerie supernatural light and the whole wing flapping thing that's going on there in the back ground. In a nutshell I'm back to saying I'm not particularly worthy. Have you considered nipping out, down the street and checking if there are any more worthy types; I 'd suggest you try the bigger houses, there's probably a better class of person in there. I say that based on all the social politics and red top journalism that I've been subjected to in my short and so far uneventful life, nothing to do with any of your ideas or pronouncements...Lord.”
The Angel of the Lord just looked at me, I sensed a bit of disappointment as he placed his finger onto his lips as if to indicate that I should at this point shut up, so I did. He stepped forward and cleared his throat. I swallowed heavily and stepped back, kind of of trying to acknowledge the angel's obvious need for a bit of decent space in which to work. Ahem. Space to perform is important, you have to own it.
“You.” he was addressing me, that was clear, the other people, the classy ones were not going to get this message, just me. “I have a message for you and for all mankind (in a way). A message from the fictional heart of the universe or the virtual and vague Ancient of Days. A message that has been there since quite early on in the dawn of time, before breakfast anyway and that solemn and serious message is for your ears alone.”
I'm getting it now, for once it's all down to me, the chosen one, the vessel, the reliable recipient of this vital, divine message. This is no time to screw up so I'd better listen quite carefully. Check: eyes engaged. Check: not about to wander into some day dream. Check: not bursting for a pee or anything. Check: nothing distracting stuck in my teeth and no trapped wind that's making me feel a bit uncomfortable. “Ok.” I say. “Good to go with the whole message thing, thank you, your highness.”
“Fine,” began the angel, breathing in and nodding deliberately, “here is my grave and most serious message to you, listen up. Ahem. It has been noticed by the most omnipotent and very clever God of the entire universe that you are driving around in a rather shabby looking Volvo that does neither your public or self image any good. To be honest (and that is something that God does like to work on and also to emphasise in conversation) it looks like shit and so do you. Nobody is going to take you seriously driving around in that thing like some old git headed for his allotment. You are doing yourself down and your poor wife is at her wits end with the pain and embarrassment of having to ride shotgun in that heap. OK, I know you'll say that it's pretty reliable and that you've just had the timing belt done and shit like that but...that's just not good enough. You need an upgrade. Badly.”
“Lord, I know I've sinned and fucked up a bit, but I though that, for the sake of the planet (your planet?) I was kind of helping by a) not being greedy, b) not being materialistic and c) getting good value for money So that's me being thrifty, by running the old bean into the deck on a tight budget. Are you telling me that my humble and unassuming strategy for personal transport isn't what you'd wish it to be?” The angel breathed deeply, forcing a sigh and rolling his eyes, (didn't expect that really, as they are immortal and stuff like that. How does breathing work for angels in space and time and flying up high? Rolling the eyes in an over dramatic way is also a bit gay really).
“Look, I'm just delivering a pretty clear and simple message. It's my job and I'm not here to counsel you on the daft and complicated ideas you have rolling around in your head like a set of broken ball bearings needing a good grinding, a shot of grease and sorted out into their correct sizes with a pair of rusty tweezers. The Lord has spoken; well he is now via me and I am relaying his message and his message to you, squint built little minion and unloveable lump is...get yourself a white Audi. Like the one that one of those blessed Pope fellows might buy himself if he was an ordinary bloke or a salesman or something.” At that shattering news I fell to my knees. Limp and shattered.
“But Lord/Angel/Supreme Being, I cannot do such a thing. The white Audi is evil incarnate (or so I have been taught but the leaders, elders and betters of the Church of the Broken Hearted and Mother Mary Doll). A great grinning, extravagant (but classy and reliable) form of transport that only the devil himself or a close member of his family might ever drive upon the public highway. Think of the panic, despair and fear that the sight of a white Audi in a rear view mirror has upon a poor, hapless and dimwitted Volvo driver such as I?” I allowed the tears to flow and went with them, down, out and into my own familiar and dark place of comfort and solitude. A safe place or so it seemed. I rolled on the floor and ended, after a few spasms in the foetal position,eyes closed tight.
“Enough of the self pity and self deprecation. Get yourself a backbone and a bank-loan, get yourself a purpose and point. Do not however get yourself a porpoise and a joint. God never tells his flock of human and disobedient dummies stuff like that, no. Just get a white Audi and have done with it. Search Auto Trader now within a radius of no more than 20 miles and be prepared to pay no more than £4k. Oh, and make sure that if it's done more than 70,000, which it certainly will have done at that money, that it's got a recently renewed timing belt. Trade only no private sales and make sure they throw in a bit of warranty. No dogs please and try to get a non-smoker. Thus says the Lord.”
“Ok, got that.”
