A Jehovah’s Witness came to my door this weekend at the most inopportune moment, as per usual. I was in the process of dressing, not quite there yet, when the doorbell went.
“Hello?” I barked, still pulling on a sock.
“Are you worried about the future of the world?” he replied.
Blimey. With my dungarees half-buckled, hair looking like abstract scribble and still bleary-eyed with sleep, I found myself thrust into an existential conversation before I’d even had a cup of tea.
On the doorstep was a man in a white shirt and overcoat, a bit too formal for a Saturday morning, a black leather bag over his shoulder and a pamphlet in his hand. I only caught a glimpse but I saw something about “suffering” and a Ladybird Book-style illustration of a family arm-in-arm.
“Is this something to do with religion?” I asked, which was the best I could muster in that particular moment.
He laughed softly and exhaled with the air of someone who’s had a lot of doors slammed in his face, but carried on nonetheless.
“Look, I’m an atheist,” I said, breaking his well-rehearsed patter, “I don’t want to waste your time.”
He smiled benignly. It could have come across as patronising, but I understood his bemusement. For a committed evangelist, it must seem utterly bizarre that he is more concerned with saving my soul from eternal damnation than I am. Undeterred, the holy man informed me that many others had said the same thing before seeing the light.
“I can assure you I am as devoted as you are,” I said as I closed the door. I confess, it was a white lie. In all honesty, I’m more agnostic these days but didn’t want to reveal a chink in my armour. Besides, I turned away from all forms of organised religion a long time ago.
My status as a lapsed Catholic was reaffirmed only the night before, courtesy of Ralph Fiennes’ latest Oscar-tipped papal thriller, Conclave. (Five stars – highly recommend.)
It won’t spoil the plot to say the Vatican is depicted as misogynistic as ever. There are hilariously absurd moments: Cardinals in their opulent vestments boarding a minibus or vaping as they gossip in tight-knit cliques. The only women are the quiet nuns who serve them lunch. Modern advancements, it seems, are embraced without hesitation but only so long as it suits them.
It reassured my belief that paternalistic faith is akin to hell anyway, so I’ll take my chance.
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My heart goes out to the poor wee bairns north of the border. From August, birthday cake will be banned from playgroups and nurseries in Scotland. Fish fingers, chips, chocolates, sweets, fruit juice, crisps, popcorn – basically anything yummy – all off the menu too. Which is a shame. I highly doubt precious childhood memories will be forged blowing out the candles on a head of broccoli.
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The new Robbie Williams biopic Better Man, in which he features as a CGI chimp, has flopped in the States taking just £475,000 in its opening day. Perhaps unsurprisingly. As one American commentator pointed out on X: “What part of we don’t know who the **** he is are y’all not getting?”
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Prescriptions for everyday items such as toothpaste and shampoo have jumped in the last couple of years as patients say they cannot afford them.
The NHS is already at breaking point, and now GPs are squandering millions of pounds doling out basic toiletries that can be bought for as little as 50p in shops.
It was built to heal the sick, not to paper over the cracks of broader societal issues.