Darren, God’s second son, was worried about the family’s legacy. Dad had an image problem, so he went to see him.
“Dad,” he said. “We need to give you a makeover.”
“What for?”
“All this divine retribution stuff,” Darren said. “It doesn’t play well. We need PR.”
“Where are we going to get that?”
“Ring the Pope.”
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The postmistress had a bad reputation and specialised in being irritable with everybody. She was perhaps in her fifties, but almost of a geological age. You were put in mind of a slab of granite behind the serving hatch in the corner of the mini-supermarket. Her face was stony, her resentment hard.
‘NEXT!’ she barked from behind her counter. ‘First or second? Put it on the scales. ON them, not under them. Where’s it going? WHAT? Gib-raltar?’ She pronounced the word as though it were the most awful place on the planet. Then she forked the parcel off the scales with a plump paw, eyeing her customer in the manner of a prison guard with a felon.
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