JESUS HEALS A PARALYTIC

 

THE HOME OWNER

Three weeks it took me to get the roof mended, every spare hour I'd got for three weeks.

 

The only blessing in a thoroughly unsatisfactory situation was that we were in the dry season, otherwise we'd have been flooded out.

 

If I could get my hands on the young hooligans who thought it was such a good idea to come round and damage my property I'd have them in court. There's laws in place that are supposed to protect decent hard working citizens like me.

 

I've asked the missus who they were and I might as well have been talking to myself.

 

Three weeks it's taken me. I've put a shift in at work and then a double shift at home. Do you think she's grateful? In the whole time she's neither mopped my brow, made me a drink, done anything of any help whatsoever.

 

Instead she's been floating around with this faraway look on her face and all I've heard is, “Imagine all those people in my house,” and “You should have seen that lovely young man standing tall and strong,” and Jesus this and Jesus that and, “I'll never forget those Pharisees with dust all over their fancy clothes,” and Jesus the other.

 

I said to her more than once, not that she was listening, but I said it anyway, “If I ever meet this marvellous Jesus I'll ask him why, being as he's such a miracle worker, he couldn't work a bit of his magic on my roof.”

 

That's my idea of a miracle.