Good morning, this is God speaking. Yes, it's Me. Put down your porridge spoon, and stop monkeying with your iPhone.
I see the current columnist rage is inventing diaries of famous people. This gives me a clever idea. If I type up ‘‘A Week in the Life of God'', and submit it to the papers, I'd get the whingers off my back. They'd read how busy I am, and stop whispering that I've hit an off patch solving world problems. So. -
Monday.
First, I'll explain my routine. The alarm dings at 7am, and I bang the snooze button. When my head's cleared, I clean my teeth, shower and shave - I got rid of my long white beard in 1901 when the Gillette chap invented the safety razor. Cripes, I wish I'd thought of that. I'd have made gazillions.
Next is Stretch Class, then I change from my Lulu Lemons and meet St Peter at the Pearly Gates for Sitting in Judgement. Monday's a tough court because I get the entire weekend's dead at once, and I run out of patience. (Tip: Don't take your last gasp on a Sunday.) Donald Trump is my week's big public affairs question. What should I do with him? Bonfire his quiff? Repeat my pillar of salt trick?
Tuesday.
Tuesday is famines and pestilence. It's an easier day, because man handles most himself. Consider Moses. There he was, leading his starving tribe through the wilderness for 40 years, when all he had to do was stop and ask for directions. Honestly.
I suppose it's partly my fault. That's how I made blokes.
The Trump pestilence. A toad? A dodgy oyster?
Wednesday.
More suicide bombers at the Pearly Gates clamouring for their 72 virgins. I'm sick of them, and they're sent up the street to their own One True God. There are several of us here in heaven, and the OTG Club often gets together for a cuppa.
Basically we get on, but it's not all sweet harmony. We can't mention Jerusalem, and some of the theology is complex. For example, the bombers' God stews them in boiling oil for five centuries, then buries them in steaming excrescence. I'd take a more forgiving, Christian view. They'd get their virgins - but they'd also be front row in the Angel Choir's castrato section.
Thursday.
I appoint Saints on Thursdays, and it's a nightmare. We've already got 10,000 of these Saint coves - and Pope Francis is out of control. Recently Frank canonised 800 do-gooders in one sitting. Managing 800 St Newbies will be like trying to baptise 800 cats. And can you imagine the paperwork in the scroll room? We've got a new intern (Steve Jobs) installing a Saints computer program. Mr Jobs is a touch surly, but I gather that's common with software people. It should work - he said ‘‘She's apples'' when he took my brief.
News flash. The Kiwi golf teen is only two miracles away from becoming the next St Lydia. Go kid!
Friday.
Finger-waggers on my investment committee are urging me into an Ethical Shares portfolio that dumps my Fonterra stock. Apparently Fonterra causes climate change because their dairy cows break stupendous amounts of wind. Who'd have thought?When I questioned the concept of cows destroying the planet, the Chairman nodded sagely and said: ‘‘God works in mysterious ways.'' (This is code for ‘‘Sorry God - you stuffed up again.''). Look, I only made cows to be cows.
Saturday.
Real estate admin in the morning. As you know, Heaven's been located in Queenstown, but Mammon is the new landlord there, and I worry they'll lose the plot. Paradise may have to relocate.
Saturday arvo I golf in the Arrowtown comp. I've held their course record since kingdom come, but winning got tougher when the committee raised my handicap to Plus 51. Petty tyrants!The Met Bureau promised clear skies, but play was abandoned when it rained cats and frogs. Can nobody predict this Godforsaken weather?
Sunday.
Look, I'd read my Bible, but it scares the hell out of me. Besides, today's the day of rest. I did get Trump sorted. He no longer hosts The Apprentice - he'll rejoin the show as a somewhat dim entrant. This may be fun.
Peace.
● John Lapsley, today's ghost writer, lives in Arrowtown.
