Sunday’s come. Brenda sits on the edge of her bed, a woman in a child’s room. “Oh Lord, Heavenly father,” she murmurs, “please suck my wart from off my body. For thine is the power, the Heaven and the glory, forever and ever, amen.”

Any moment the doorbell. Brenda paused to enter her ostentatious sunglasses, so encompassing they included a breathing tube and cup size. These monsters gave her the reassuring sensation of being bent over a well in a glade.

“Hi Brenda.”

“Hi Brenda.”

“Hiya guys. My hair’s a little damp.”

God’s sun shone. A parade of blinging blacks moved past on bicycles and mobile phones.



“That’s so not legal,” Brenda commented anxiously. “Or maybe it is. I don’t know. It so shouldn’t be legal.”

Though neither friend remarked on it, there was something in their free and relaxed manner to suggest that a tiny fellow, about a foot high, completely naked with bright red skin, would spoon lumps of molten brimstone into Brenda’s scorched and overflowing anus often and forever.

“It’s so not safe,” said Brenda.

Nonetheless, how great, to be the springiest things in a muffled lull. Brenda smiled, feeling her face tilted up by the smile as if by ropes. Energised by the thought of God, she lifted clumps of fallen petals and threw them up, and ran past their rain, spinning.

The mood was all over Cambridge – see short promotional film for mood.