Pig and bull story: Ben Evens’ Thought for the week
‘If you believe that, you would believe anything.’
Last year I wandered into a rather posh shop. Among the goods for sale was a display of fine china. I was quite taken with the collection of farmyard animals. As I bent over to peer more closely at the exquisite detail, another customer started to edge past me in the narrow aisle. Swinging round to make more room, my rucksack hit the shelf and several animals cascaded to the floor: three sheep, a pedigree bull, and a Gloucester Old Spot pig. In my haste to leave the scene of this disaster, I trod on the toe of the mortified woman who had brushed against me. An assistant appeared and I left the explaining to him. I retraced my way to the door, following the muddy bootprints on the pink velvety carpet that I had left behind on my way in. I stepped out into the busy street, wondering why I felt so calm and carefree.
As I dodged between the shoppers, I saw just ahead of me a toddler running into the road – attracted, no doubt, by the coloured lights around the crib scene in the churchyard. The young mum was oblivious to this as she struggled with a twin pushchair. I could see a butcher’s boy on his bike, whistling unconcernedly, heading for the little child. I leapt into the road and snatched the lad from the jaws of death and returned him to his startled mum. The butcher’s boy continued his unheeding way. A passer-by who had witnessed this incident approached me and said I deserved a medal, but I shrugged my shoulders and strolled on.
Later that day, in the pub, I asked the barman if he believed in fairies. He said no, but in return asked me if I believed in ghosts. I told him I had only seen one, when I was younger. I told about the time I had managed to land an aircraft after the pilot had had a fatal heart attack. His ghost came to thank me: in his dying moments he thought he was going to be responsible for the deaths of 163 passengers.
Later, at a small guest house where I was to spend the night, the landlady pressed me to have some cocoa and a mince pie or two. I managed eleven in the end. On the wall in the rather old-fashioned bedroom there hung the usual sampler with a traditional message. I fell asleep with the thought running through my mind.
The next day I fell into conversation with a young chap who was also on a walking tour. We chatted about our respective adventures. He said he had heard about the bull in the china shop the day before, and about the child rescue. He had overheard my story in the pub as well. I modestly said, ‘Yeah, that was me.’
He said, ‘Go on!’, disbelievingly. ‘No,’ I replied, ‘just kidding! Believe that and you’d believe anything.’
‘So you’re a Quaker?’ he went on to ask. ‘No,’ I replied, ‘I only believe in one thing: Love is God.’ Why do those samplers always get it the wrong way round?
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