Wednesday, 28 July 2010

To the big fullah upstairs



Dear God,

I know it's been an age since I last appeared on your radar. And yes, I get that with me being a tiny bit on the agonistic side, this shout-out may come as a bigger surprise than your old mate Peter stitching you up for a bit of bling.

Anyway dude, I'm hoping you'll be able to help me out. Well, not strictly me, but our beloved doggie, Molly. About now, Her Royal Highness will be at Auckland airport, having her not inconsiderable bulk squeezed into a crate in preparation for a 10,000km flight to her new home in San Francisco.

It’s no secret Ms Molly has always been this side of nervous, so I’m kinda hoping you can shine your light (or whatever it is you do) over her to keep her safe during her journey. Held captive in a noisy, dark steel bird for 12 hours when you’ve clocked up roughly 94 human years – and suffered a stroke earlier this year – can’t be that flash on the old ticker.

Seeing as you’re an all seeing, all knowing kind of chap, you’ll be aware that I’m already swimming in a sea of guilt about abandoning Molly, so if anything were to happen to her I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself.

If you’d see fit to help her out, I’d really appreciate it. Having been force-fed Catholicism in my formative years, I know how the drill works: I need to do something in return. Last week I bit my tongue when some posh Pommy bitch cut in front of me in the supermarket queue, while today I extracted even more blood from my poor bruised tongue when I refrained from telling my neighbour what a loud, tossy public school wanker he is. Does that count?

If you could do your bit, I’d be ever so grateful. For my part, I’m crossing everything on my person that my sweet fur baby will be okay.


Shazzy xxx

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