It’s The Witnesses. Run to the Hills.
Yes, Sunday. What’s happening? Mowing the lawn, washing the car, buffing the dog, all this and so much more. A light lunch of cucumber sandwiches perchance, washed down with with a cheeky Chablis, prior to an afternoon of Sir John Mills or Ralph Richardson in a suitably uplifting black and white war-time slice of propaganda. “Damn those bally Jerries, Hermione, but we have to fight them to save the world”, “Oh promise me you’ll come back to me, Teddy”, “But of course Hermione, although I’ll be a husk of my former self and my nads will be in Northern France”. What joys. And then they knock on the door. In frankly unfashionable suits and carrying leatherette attache thingies. Two of the buggers with a third standing watch on the street. Oh arse, it’s the bloody Witnesses.
You expect the usual flashing gnashers and the “can we leave you a leaflet with a picture of lions, horses, unicorns all snuggling up to a nice white bloke with a neatly trimmed beard and checked jumper” approach but these ones are different. Oh my word are they different. It seems, given the many sources that _Paul_And_Land_ scours in the search for these ‘ere wee vignettes, that our erstwhile religous animal lovers have many things in common with Vegetarians. So we’re told. Don’t shoot me, I’m merely the messenger of these glad tidings for all men (but not women, as is the case with all things religious). But that’s for another day. Possibly a week on Tuesday. Or Friday, depending on the plumber.
Where were we? Yes, Vegetarians. Knocking on your door: “Could we interest you in the word of the Vegetarian Society” they begin. “Could we leave you this courgette, perhaps you would care to join us for some cous-cous?”
That’s thrown you, get back to buffing the dog.