For whatever reason I was driving about the Kent countryside with my youngest son George, a student of music. Our conversation had drifted from one subject to another as is often the case when two scatterbrains engage in idle conversation. Inevitably common ground was eventually found in the form of a topic close to our respective hearts, namely the human condition.

Just recently the young daughter of a friend living nearby suffered the misfortune of the death of her beloved pet hamster. The girl in question organised a funeral for said rodent – even making a small coffin for it to be buried in. Guests were invited to attend a brief service and kind words were spoken before the furry corpse was placed in its final resting place – a hole dug the night before in the back yard. Thereafter cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off and cups of Earl Grey tea were consumed by the suited and booted mourners. George and I were discussing this event thus;

George: “That’s more than you did for Snotflock when he died; you just told me he was dead and that you had flushed him down the toilet.”

Me: “And?”

George: “Well I was a little kid. You could have done something special. I was pissed off about it at the time.”

Me: “That’s a bit rich coming from you. You are a self-proclaimed atheist – you even wear the tee-shirt.”

George: “Obviously, yet when you’re a kid hearing your hamster has been seen off to the coast like a lump of excrement is not good is it?”

That got me thinking!

Planet Earth; Stone Age:

Boy Grunt: “Oi Dad me small, cute hairy pet thing isn’t moving.”

Grunt: “Snuffed it son. Stiff as a board and dead as a dinosaurs dick. May as well get another one.”

Boy Grunt: “But I want that one he’s my mate. What happens to him now – you know now he’s dead?”

Grunt has to have a jolly good think about this and so as to not distress the child further answers thus;

Grunt: “Better ask your mother.”

Boy Grunt: “Mum, me small, cute hairy pet thing is no more and I want him back. Got any ideas?”

Mrs Grunt: “Stroll on son everybody knows that when you kick the bucket you go off to a better place so don’t get all upset.”

Boy Grunt: “What place Mum – can I go there with him?”

Mrs Grunt: “Of course not, you only get to go there when you’re dead like.”

Boy Grunt: “So I’ll see him again one day?”

Mrs Grunt: “Yeah, one day you will.”

Boy Grunt: “OK suppose that’ll do.”

Mrs Grunt collars Grunt and advises thus;

Mrs Grunt: “I fed the boy a line about his dead small, cute furry pet thing going to a better place. A load of bollocks really yet he seems happy enough about it.”

Grunt: “Sorted! Nice one luv.”

A little later;

Boy Grunt: “Here Dad, who’s going to feed me small, cute furry pet thing in this place Mum says he’s living at now?”

Grunt: “Better ask your mother.”

This was, of course, before the time of philosophers. Yet thus it was that the concept of religion was born!




    1. Wish I was Sir – sadly I am but an idiot who has always let his mind roam freely. I was a PI for years and I think my kind of idiocy helped with that role. Thanks for the comment.

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