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Welcome once again to the Crazy World Of Writers, a place where anything can happen and probably will.
A Crazy Poet Goes To Church
This week I thought that I would write about something that is close to my heart, something important that means a lot to me. (My lungs!)
Yes, you heard me right, my lungs, I feel as though I am smoking more and more these days and I think that it is about time that I finally gave up on my nicotine intake.
As I write this, I have a ciggie hanging from my lip, my wife is shouting out, "Do you have to smoke those things?" My reply tonight was, (There is a different reply every night) "What else shall I smoke instead?"
As usual she sighs and ignores me for a while and I am sure that I can still hear her muttering obscenities directed at me as I write.
I did try to stop smoking before and was delighted when I reached four days without a single puff, unfortunately the ciggie demon found my hiding place and came to visit.
I was hiding in the church across the road from me, sweat dripping from my shaking body, the priest who preached in the church appeared and was in the process of lighting some candles.
I was in the confessional box, (They do not use them on Tuesdays, perhaps sins only occur on the other days of the week) I looked out and saw him take out a lighter and light a candle. Suddenly he spun around and looked around the church, I thought that he had spied me or heard me but I cannot remember making any sound at the time, when he appeared to be satisfied that there was no one there he pulled out a packet of cigarettes.
There was me, hiding in a church, trying to escape the ciggie demon, facing a priest lighting a ciggie, he obviously did not want to be seen.
The smoke seemed to come my way, I am not sure if any of you who smoke has noticed that whenever you light one up in front of a non smoker the smoke always seem to drift in their direction?
Anyway, the smoke came towards me, perhaps it was my imagination or perhaps it was the candles, but the smoke seemed to have a glow around it, I thought that it looked kind of (Holy).
Smoke wafted into my hiding place and irritated my nose, I tried with all my might to ignore it but it was too overpowering, I sneezed.
The priest looked around quickly and said, "Who is there?"
He actually expected an answer because when I did not answer he said it again.
I did not want to lie to a man of the cloth so I said, "Me"
He, in turn said, "Who is me?"
I was going to say, (Well I am not god if that's what you think) but decided that that would not be the right thing to say so I came out of my hiding place and said, "Sorry, I was hiding here to avoid the ciggie demon."
The priest said, "What do you mean the ciggie demon?"
I explained to him that I was trying to give up smoking and that I thought that I would be safe from temptation if I were to hide in the church as every other place I have tried to hide from the ciggie demon did not seem to keep it away.
He seemed more than surprised at my explanation, he looked at me for a bit then said, "It is not a sin to smoke you know."
I said, "I know, but my health is suffering."
He dragged deeply on his cigarette, he saw me staring at his hand that held the ciggie. Without saying anything he took out his pack and held it out to me.
Here was I, in a church, trying to escape the demon, and he offers me the pack.
That was when I realized something, there is no escape from the ciggie demon, I took the offered pack and removed a ciggie and lit it on one of the candles that he had just lit.
While we smoked we talked about the bible, we talked about some of the meanings that the stories tried to project. As you can imagine my versions of the stories were quite different to his.
He told me about Lazarus, how Jesus brought him back to life.
I told him about the burning bush, a hooker in London had a nasty infection down below and tried to get rid of it by burning the hair.
He told me about a stick that turned into a snake, I told him about the time I drank my old man's home made beer and replaced it with water.
When we finished our ciggies I thanked him for saving my life by giving me a ciggie and he thanked me for leaving, I think I heard him mutter, 'Don't come back' as I left.
John Mcleod
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