Listen / Read
Exactly! Why can’t people just die? My sentiments precisely. I’m all for befriending that great enemy. Well, you know, if I’ve no choice in the matter. I’m not interested in being death’s best friend on a voluntary basis. Not to suggest that I love life so very much or anything, I’m just an anti-social bugger. I think making friends is overrated to start with, so why would I want to get chummy with a skinny farmer chap in a hoodie? I’d give him a chance if I had to. I am English. I’m pre-programmed to be polite to strangers whether I want to be or not.
Take being sat next to someone for the duration of a train journey. Sometimes you end up having no choice but to make conversation with a perfect stranger because there’s no escaping them. They might be too nice for you to be a grumpy sod to, or they might be a little scary and make you afraid of what they might do if you try to ignore them. Or, who knows, they might be a charming hottie and you might even think you’ve got a chance of getting in there. So you make conversation, chit the chat and befriend them for the duration. But instead of alighting at the end of the journey and going your separate ways (or checking into a Travelodge for a spot of impulsive face-sitting) they pull out a scythe (which I always thought was quite an impractical implement for striking death blows, quite unwieldy unless you’re yielding grain – I’d much prefer a ninja star to the jugular) and smite thee down. Which is actually something I’ve often hoped for as a commuter on British public transport. Only not at the end of the journey, but as soon as possible after boarding.
Tilby’s Thought today does seem to be something of a response to Mona Siddiqui’s instalment on the same topic. Mona Siddiqui suggested that a little bit of extra time bought by really expensive drugs would provide someone with the opportunity needed to gently come to terms with death and build the courage to face it when it comes. If I’m to indulge myself in reading between the lines of Tilby’s argument, she’s saying that if you need more time to die you’re obviously a religious sissy and should suck it up and grow a pair. If your faith was as good as hers and her Christian pals (and your God was as nails as Jesus) you’d have all the courage you needed and no need for pussy-ass life extending drugs.
Now now children, let’s not quibble over whose faith is the strongest, whose god is bigger than whose. My god could beat your god up any day because my god is a fireman! Well that’s nothing because my god is a ninja fireman! Etc, etc. Give me a break. Both your gods work in accounting and are called Keith. Neither of them could so much as intimidate a skittish gimp with chronic anxiety and a fear of accountants called Keith. (Keithaccountophobia, if you were wondering.)
I must be in a good mood today, I’ve indulged representatives of two faiths with the presumption that their gods exist. But what would you rather be? Non-existent, or an accountant called Keith?
I’m sure being an accountant called Keith wouldn’t be all that bad. But I know what I’d be thinking if I found myself sat next to one on a train.
No ninja star? Oh well, go on then. Scythe it is.
Just hurry up about it.