For Heaven's sake, this is hell!

Image: Getty
Image: Getty

God measured an extra spoon of Earl Grey into the teapot, rotated it thrice, and barked ‘‘Come in — the door’s open,’’ when St Peter knocked.

Heaven was now engulfed by best-practice procedures, standing committees, and safety rules. If heaven had needed resource consent, it wouldn’t have been permitted.

Meetings, bloody meetings. It seemed just a blink — 30 years — since God had retired to tend his stamp collection.

He’d handed St Peter the chief executive’s gig at five mill a year — fair enough — but when God agreed to hang round as chairman, he didn’t expect they’d need him every week. For heaven’s sake, he’d left a well-oiled machine. Surely eternity could run itself.

‘‘I’ll be mother,’’ said God, pouring the tea. ‘‘I trust it’s a short agenda because I’m monitoring an internet auction. I’ve bid on a Penny Black.’’

‘‘We’ll do our best,’’ said St Peter, shovelling board papers from his bulging Gladstone bag. God shook his head in disbelief. He’d spent 2000 years training this guy as deputy, and what was the result? A Bureaucrat with a capital B.

Heaven was now engulfed by best-practice procedures, standing committees, and safety rules. If heaven had needed resource consent, it wouldn’t have been permitted.

‘‘What’s first?’’ asked God warily.

‘‘The Pearly Gates immigration figures — we topped a million last week.’’

St Peter seemed pleased, but God frowned as he perused the statistics. ‘‘Grief, you’re admitting more ‘Others’ than ‘Christians.’ Why can’t they bugger off to their own paradises? Call me old fashioned, but we should go back to heaven for Christians.’’

‘‘That’s impossible, God. We’ve signed the United Heavens Refugee Convention. If some pagan is going to get boiled in oil or sent back as a frog, the poor sod can now try his luck with us. If we reject them, we wouldn’t be human.’’

‘‘But up here we’re not human. Or have your do-gooders changed that too?’’ asked God acidly. ‘‘OK Peter, your lot has snookered me again. What’s next?’’

‘‘The Housing Crisis. What with all the newbies, we have souls snoring in the streets,’’ said St Peter. ‘‘We need an affordable housing scheme. I know your Bible promised mansions for all, but really, it’s a Marxist lunacy.

‘‘Then go put the squeeze on Fletcher Construction,’’ God suggested.

‘‘I did. They’ve dumped Italianate fountains, but still can’t do a six bedder under a million.’’ God groaned.

He’d considered promising everyone tidy three-bedroom villas, but religion is competitive and a mansion seemed better bait. ‘‘Any more surprises, Peter? Spit them out!’’

‘‘We abolished the urinal, because it unfairly fast-tracked penised people. All people attending the theatre now use cubicles, and do equal queuing time. So at last we’ve achieved equality in missing the second act.’’

God was about to argue, but remembered the clock was ticking on his bid. ‘‘The penis seemed a good idea, but it’s caused nothing but trouble,’’ God conceded. ‘‘Is there a skerrick of good news?’’

‘‘We have a new soprano for your Angels’ Choir,’’ St Peter said brightly. God beamed. He conducted the choir personally on second Sundays.

‘‘Marvellous! I need another soprano for the October Eisteddfod. Have you checked she can reach High C?’’

‘‘Not quite. Actually she’s a dead ringer for Johnny Cash, so Middle C’s a struggle. But the Voice Choice Bill ensures her right to be soprano. Besides, she’s a lovely chap. Albert Smith fits anywhere.’’

‘‘How about a compromise?’’ God begged. ‘‘Could I talk Albert into standing with the sopranos, but singing the bass line?’’

‘‘That would be unfair to Albert,’’ said St Peter. ‘‘Our policies create freedom of choice, so that anyone can be what they’re not. Contraltos can be baritones too.’’

‘‘It’ll make the choir a shambles,’’ God retorted. ‘‘Damnit, Albert’s a bass, and I’m telling him so.’’

‘‘That might be courageous,’’ said St Peter. The Almighty put down his teacup and looked at his Chief Saint. Yes, ‘‘courageous’’ was a threat spoken in dweeb management code. His CEO meant God could have no peace and goodwill until he quietly caved on the Angels’ Choir.

‘‘It’s a sad state when The Almighty can’t say what he thinks,’’ God grumbled as he showed St Peter to the door.

‘‘Do you get the strangest feeling heaven’s going to hell in a hand basket?’’

‘‘Not at all,’’ said St Peter briskly. ‘‘Heaven was always too clubby. You found Christians on every corner.’’

- John Lapsley is an Arrowtown writer.

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