Yep. With nothing on my conscience (ever as clean as the proverbial, as pure as the driven snow) I still sent such tidal waves across our waterbed that The Spouse got up quietly and sneaked off to the sofa. Took the teddy bear too, dammit …


So here’s a repost, taken from my more light-hearted site. Make of it what you will, and if any offended religious folks feel moved enough to challenge — come get me, Tiger!


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No gods, goddesses, or long skinny mysterious ethereal things were harmed in the process of writing this tale. No offence is intended to anyone, alive or half-dead. Just enjoy (if your religion will allow).

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In the beginning all was void

and without form. Then after a very busy few days and nights God created Man, in His own image.

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(Ooops … bugger!) (Rewind, try again)—

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That being the gospel truth, must then mean there’s a feminine variant of God …

Now flash forward some years (about six thousand by some counts, about 14,000,000,000 by others) to ME in the here and right now:

Knock knock!

“Who’s there?” Damn. I’m busy, delegate—



“Can you get that, please?”

Mutter mutter mutter … click, followed by indistinct voices.

Door closes, two lots of footsteps.

Uh oh. A visitor, and me up to my elbows in old-fashioned pen and pages—blasted power cut. Damn again … curiosity:

“Who is it, Toots?”

“No-one you know — it’s Mrs God. She says she’s calling in person to see you after your recent blog posts. Who’ve you cranked up this time?”


“What’s she want?”

“Just a chat. Says she knows you’re busy and will be until you finish that commentary on polar bears — I didn’t know you wrote about polar bears?”

Poop. Other than me no-one does, I’ve just started it. Oh! Mrs God, of course.

“Tell her I’ll be right out—”

“In about twelve minutes, She says. I’d offer Her a coffee but the power’s still off — oh, not a problem, She’s got the jug going.”

“It’s still off in here.”

“And here — it’s only on at the jug. Weird.”

“Whom did you say it was?”

“Mrs God … … … … … … oh!

That might explain something.

“Can you get Her to—” My computer boots into life.

“—thanks. Appreciated.”

Again I marvel at my own ability to accept the unacceptable at a moment’s notice. Okay, miracles sometimes do take a little longer, no problem. Now, polar bears, something important in the great scheme of things … aaaah.

Still marvelling I shift from pen to keyboard, momentarily resenting that She hadn’t called earlier. Honestly, some People …

“She says She’s sorry about that! A minor miracle was needed at short notice in Afghanistan to stop some more Buddha statues being blown up. Took a bit longer than She expected. Bloody heathens.”


A thought—

“Couldn’t Hubby have done it?”

“She’s not speaking to Him right now. Something to do with His ‘holier-than-thou’ attitude, She says.”

Coffee noises float in through my doorway, followed by a heavenly scent. Blue Mountain, my favourite, how did She know? Oops, dumb questi—

“Omniscience, She says. It can be a bit of a pain too, sometimes.”


“Buddhas? I’d have thought She’d be happy the competition was being blown up?”

A loud appreciative slurp is followed by Spouse’s voice, tinged with deepest appreciation (think orgasmic, only more so).

“She says that it’s Mr God who’s the jealous one, she’s more the live-and-let-live type Herself. Anyway, competition is healthy, lowers the costs, so the believer benefits all round.”

Ye gods. A capitalistic free-thinking God? Goddess?

A thought.

“What’s She look like?”

“She says just get on with your writing — and to stop hammering anthropogenic as being too man-made, it’s a lost subtlety.”

Gone. Just like that, a whole morning’s scratchings.

Rip. Shred, tear, rip. Control A + delete. Start again.

“Does She have any suggestions?”

“Argie, She’s gorgeous! And says to use your own free will, She’s not going to write it for you … eh? What? … Oh! (Okay, I’ll tell him) … but your article on revamping NZ politics sure stirred ‘em up!”

“I haven’t written one!”

“Next week — She apologised for mixing the dates up, says being in next week as well as here and now can sometimes get confusing.”

NZ politics? Now there’s a thought.

“Should I come out there?” I know the Spouse, her idea of gorgeous means absolutely divine. Oops.

“No point, She says. You have to believe first. Disbelievers can never see Her.”


I watch in disbelief as a coffee floats in through the doorway and parks itself neatly between keyboard and mouse. Coffee at least is real. My hair fluffles to an unseen soft touch and I feel a light kiss on the back of my neck. Instant goosebumps.

“So you believe in God, Toots? I never knew that.”

“Not in God, no. Mrs God, yes — it’s a girlie thing, you wouldn’t understand.”

Witch. Thanks for the coffee, anyway. A thousand questions flood my mind. At last, a chance for some answers.

“Argie! She’s grabbed her stuff and is heading for the door—”

Damn! So close, yet so far.

“—She says that if you’re going to get all metaphysical on Her She’s out of here—what have you done?”

Me? Nothing. Yet. Eek.

My keyboard explodes into life and this post finishes writing itself before my eyes in mere milliseconds. I lean forward and obediently sip from the coffee floating in front of my lips while the keys rattle on. Cute.

The script switches to bold italics — goody, I like italics — and this post finishes itself just as the front door closes with a gentle, final, and perfectly omnipotent CLICK.

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is exemplary. No complaints. Hell, I’d even go to sea with her, and having swallowed the blasted anchor that is really saying something. But—

(there’s always a but, but?)

—but she’s taken to watching repeats of Doc Quin (Miss Seymour) Medicine Person about the time I slither out of bed (actually, fall out—it’s a huge waterbed and without her almost ineffective weight I get surges unless careful).

And when I’m gobbling breakfast she is watching the lovely Miss Seymour (nice) and all the infinitely unending never ceasing completely unoriginal blasted endless infinite cliched plots. Not nice. So? Live and let live, hey?


those plots weren’t cliches when Miss Seymour filmed them …

The plots alone I might survive, if only … if only it weren’t for that endlessly unending never ceasing eternal constant


of the blasted French horn. Non stop, all through.

Comme ca— down-there

—it’s just the first wee sample on this wee snippet. (I didn’t bother with the rest, you can go off French horns) …


Oogle phleep!





Naaaahhhh … not in this weather.

Brrrr. Here’s your quote—

“Coming to a window near you, if they are not already there, are the teddy bears of the Covid-19 pandemic. Look around next time you and your bubble escape the confines of home for a safe stroll around the block you will probably not have to go far without seeing a teddy propped up on an inside window ledge, smiling or waving as you pass by.”

And I have no idea if it’s just an NZ thing or a universal, in which case it is most likely imported from America.

But I love it!

Forgive me if I’ve posted this before (I do a lot of corresponding) but here’s someone taking it seriously—

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—snapped as we were hoofing all the way down to the graveyard (no, silly person … not to check in but to see if they had any mushies growing there this year.)(Precious few, it turned out …)



to a close relative.

Now I’m sending it to you …

—make of it what you will.

Or not, it’s a free world. (For now.) *

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* PS

The relevance? If you miss the point consider methodology and the ‘Anthropogenic Global Warming’ protestations—the manipulation of mindless masses to achieve the valued ends of the shadowy.

Myself? I shan’t be here, and with no descendants I have no investment in the future of Mankind. But you~? Don’t fret: it’s your call; democracy, and all that stuff. Use it wisely — few do.



The ol’ insomnia has kicked in so I may as well while away the wakened hours with a couple of u-tubes … and while so whiling I happened on this (again) (seen it before but don’t remember posting it) —

It’s not brilliant but I love the sentiments. And the real Greta looks so like her Mum!

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And here’s your quickie:

(First, I’ve misplaced the source of the image but I think it was DTTV Studios on u-toobe.) Anyway, here ’tis—

down there


—and if you’re interested enough you can blow it up larger to look more closely at the obvious. Is that guy’s skin peeling off, or what? Which raises frivolous questions like ‘Has this dude been out in the sun too long? Not enough slip-slop-slap on the ol’ epiderm?’

I personally ponder if that is possible (in such fashion) with what looks as if it purports to be a solid block of rock; or did the sculptor cheat, and spray the handiwork on? But I never ask in case decent sober folks confuse me with those crank things you read about. (Don’t fret, they had ’em in the olden days too—you know, lunatics who thought the world was a ball.)*

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“Wot? Still there? Sheesh!”


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* Any decent statue of Atlas has him holding the world**  on his shoulders. (Were them ancients psychic, long before Chris Columbus invented the New World?)

** World ball, globe.