Sunday stress

I knew the acoustics in the Pembury Tavern were bad, but this evening they were truly appalling, and that (combined with the low light level and the fact that I'd managed to get Show of Hands' Crow on the Cradle stuck in my head) meant I couldn't stay nearly as long as I'd hoped to. Apologies to whoever I missed!

I managed to walk off most of the stress (it takes me an hour and twenty minutes to walk home from the pub - there might well be a more direct route, but I haven't found it yet) but I'm still decompressing enough that I can't put on any more music, and when a housemate came home it felt as though he was shouting down the corridor. Which he doesn't, of course, but after a couple of hours sitting in a noisy hard-walled room and trying to follow conversations my ears are unpleasantly oversensitized.

Camomile tea will help.

Christian Fail

I wanted to write something about this (via fjm) but I haven't the heart to do more than rant bitterly. That kind of sheer wrongheaded childishness... the pathetic naivety of their idea that God may be compelled or persuaded by prayer, or indeed that God has enemies...

We're told that He smut^[1] a few people in the past, but that's all over, if indeed it ever did happen. He's grown up now, a Father and everything, and I'd like to think that we're better people too - or at least that He picks His friends more carefully than He did then.

I know that the crazyweird morons will always be with us, but it's always depressing to be reminded of their existence. And I do have faith that I'm not going to have to go have That Talk with Himself... you know the one.

"Look, I love you, you know that. But if you smite anything, just one more time, it's all over between us. I'm not prepared to be with a smiter. The God I fell in love with would never do that."

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[1] Yes, that is the correct past tense of 'smite'. He smites; the target becomes smut.